76 


"nv.   OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


t 


MAGDALEN'S  VOW 


BY 


Mrs.  may  AGNES  FLEMING 

AUTHOR   OF   "  THE   DARK   SECRET,"  THE  GYPSY    QUEEN'S   VOW,"  « THt. 

QUEEN  OF  THE   ISLE,"  "  THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CLIFF,"  "THE 

MIDNIGHT  OUEEN,"    THE  RIVAL  BROTHERS."  ETC 


NEW  YORK 

HURST  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


^^iV.    OF  CALIF.    LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


CONTENTS. 


^HAPTKR  PAQK 

I.  Magdalen 5 

II.  The  Dead  Sister's  Letter 13 

III.  Mr.  George  Barstone 19 

IV.  The  Mark  on  Maurice  Langley's  Ann 34 

V.  Golden    Willow 32 

VI.  Summer  Days 38 

VII.  Mr.  Barstone  Falls  in  Love 44 

Vlll.  Mr.  Barstone  Proposes 52 

IX.  Told  in  the  Twilight 62 

X.  Engaged 72 

XI.  Free  from  Sing  Sing 82 

XII.  Magdalen's  Wedding  Day 90 

XIII.  At  the  Opera.. 103 

XIV.  The  Mark  on  George's  Arm 112 

XV.  "  Cursed  with  the  Curse  of  an  Accomplished  Prayer"  120 

XVI.  Unpleasant  for  a  Bridegroom 130 

XVII.  The  First  Move 137 

XVIII.  In  which  Doctor  Philip  does  his  duty 150 

XIX.  Fanny's  Good  Fortune 160 

XX.  "  And  Yet  my  Days  Go  on,  (Jo  on  " 173 

XXI.  The  Lull  Before  the  Storm 184 

XXII.  The  Old  Mill  by  the  River 192 

XXIIL  That  Night gOQ 


2129498 


4  CONTENTS. 

CEtAPTER  PAtou' 

XXIV.  Told  in  the  Darknesa 206 

XXV.  "  Past  Hope,  Past  Care,  Past  Help  " 217 

XXVI.  "  I'll  Not  Believe  but  Desdemona's  Honest  " 229 

XXVII.  At  the  Last  Moment 234 

XXVIII.  Learning  the  Truth 243 

XXIX.  In  the  Sick  Room 24S 

XXX.  Before  the  Wedding 256 

XXXI.  Drawing  Near 268 

XXXII.  The  Wedding  Week 275 

XXXIII.  The  Wedding  Night 290 

XXXIV.  Avenged 297 

XXXV.  "  I  am  a  Sinner  Viler  Than  you  All " 303 

XXXVL  Forgiven 309 


MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 


CHAPTER  I. 

MAGDALEN. 

The  month  was  October,  very  near  its  close ;  the 
time,  lule  in  the  evening  of  a  wet  and  dismal  day  ;  the 
place,  a  cottage  kitchen,  its  only  occupants  an  old  woman 
and  a  baby,  not  twenty-four  hours  old.  The  soft  patter 
of  the  ceaseless  rain  on  the  glass,  the  sobbing  cry  of  the 
wind  around  the  gables,  the  moaning  surge  of  the  pine 
woods  near — these  made  their  own  tumult  without. 

Within  a  bright  fire  blazed  in  the  shining  cook  stove ;  a 
big  brass  clock  ticked  loudly  in  a  corner,  a  maltese  cat 
purred  on  a  mat,  and  the  tea-kettle  sung  its  pleasant  song. 

The  little  old  woman,  who  swayed  in  her  Boston  rocker 
before  the  stove,  was  the  trimmest  little  old  woman  ever 
firelight  shone  on. 

The  baby  lay  in  her  lap,  a  bundle  of  yellow  flannel ; 
and,  as  she  rocked,  she  cried,  miserable,  silent  tears. 

''  To  think  that  tiiis  should  be  her  welcome  home  ! " 
she  kept  moaning  drearily  to  herself.  "  Only  one  short 
year  and  all  gone — father,  sister,  brother,  home  !  My 
poor  dear — my  poor  dear  !  " 

The  loud-voiced  clock  struck  six,  with  a  clatter.  The 
last  vibration  was  drowned  in  the  shrill  scream  of  a  loco- 
motive, rushing  in.  The  shrill  shriek  rent  the  stormy 
twilight  like  the  cry  of  a  demon,  and  woke  the  sleeping 
child. 

"  Hush,  baby,  hush  !  "  the  old  woman  said,  crooning  a 
dismal  lullaby.  '*  There  she  is — there  is  Magdalen  !  Poor 
dear  !  poor  dear  !     She'll  be  here  in  ten  minutes  now." 

But  the  ten  passed — twenty — half  an  hour — before  the 
knock  for  which  she  listened  came  to  the  door. 

"  There  she  is  !  " 

She  plumped  the  baby  into  the  rocker,  made  for  the 


6  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

door  with  a  rnsh,  and  flung  it  wide.  On  the  threshold, 
all  wet  and  dripping  and  worn-looking,  a  young  girl  stood. 
The  rainv  evening  light  was  just  strong  enough  to  show  a 
pale  young  face,  a  slender,  girlish  figure,  and  a  pair  of 
great,  luminous  dark  eyes. 

'*  My  darling  I"  the  old  woman  cried,  catching  her  in 
her  arms.  *'  My  own  darling  girl !  And  you  are  wet 
through  and  through  !  You  must  have  walked  all  the 
way  from  the  station  in  the  rain. 

The  girl  slowly  disengaged  herself,  entered  the  hall  and 
stood  looking  at  her. 

'■'  Rachel,"  she  said,  *'am  I  in  time  ?" 

The  old  woman  broke  suddenly  out  crying — loud,  an- 
guished sobs,  that  shook  her  from  head  to  foot. 

It  was  the  girl's  most  eloquent  answer,  and  she  leaned 
against  the  wall  with  a  face  of  blank  despair. 

**  Too  late  ! "  she  said,  slowly  ;  "  too  late  !  Laura  is 
dead  ! " 

The  old  woman's  sobs  grew  louder  and  her  pitiful  at- 
tempts to  stifle  them  were  vain. 

''  I  oughtn't  to,  I  know,"  she  cried,  hysterically  ;  "  that 
you  should  come  home  like  this,  and  only  last  year " 

She  broke  down,  weeping  wildly.  But  the  girl  stood, 
tearless  and  white,  staring  blankly  at  the  opposite  wall. 

"  Father  and  Laura  dead — and  Willie  !  Oh,  my  God  ! 
how  can  I  bear  it  ?  " 

The  old  woman  hushed  her  sobs  and  looked  up. 

The  despair  of  that  orphaned  cry  smote  her,  with  its 
unutterable  pathos,  to  the  heart. 

*'  Magdalen  !  Magdalen  !  "  she  cried.  '*  My  darling, 
don't  look  like  that  !  Come  in — you  are  worn  and  wet — 
come  in  to  the  fire.  My  child,  don't  wear  that  sorrowful 
face  ;  it  breaks  your  poor  old  nurse's  heart !     Come  ! " 

She  led  the  way  ;  the  girl  followed.  The  old  Scripture 
name — full  of  its  own  pathos  always — seemed  strangely 
appropriate  here.  Mary  Magdalene  herself  might  have 
worn  those  amber-dropping  tresses — might  have  owned 
that  white,  young  face,  so  indescribably  sad. 

"  You  poor  child!"  the  old  nurse  said,  **you  are  as 
white  as  a  spirit !  You  must  have  a  cup  of  tea  and  some 
dry  clothes  right  away.     Where  is  your  trunk  ?  " 

Even  in  the  midst  of  death  and  despair,  these  common- 
place questions  rise. 


MAGDALEN.  f 

Magdalen  looked  at  her  with  great,  haggard  eyes. 

**  I  left  it  at  the  station.    Rachel,  when  did  Laura  die  ?** 

**  Yesterday,"  old  Rachel  answered,  crying  again  ;  *'  an 
hour  after  her  bahy  was  born." 

*'  Her  baby  ?  Oh,  Rachel  !  "  with  a  wild  start,  "  I  did 
not  know — I  did  not  know " 

The  old  woman  undid  the  bundle  of  flannel.  The  babe 
lay  soundly  asleep. 

The  girl  covered  her  colorless  face  for  a  moment,  her 
tears  coming  at  last,  falling  like  rain. 

**  Laura  !     Laura  !     My  sister  ! " 

Her  tears  were  noiseless,  burning,  bitter.  She  looked 
tip  presently,  to  bend  over  the  sleeping  child  and  kiss  its 
velvet  cheek. 

"  Laura's  baby  !  Poor  little  motherless  thing  I  Oh, 
Rachel,  it  is  very,  very  hard  !  " 

"Very  hard,  my  dearest  and  terrible  to  bear  ;  but  it 
must  be  borne,  for  all  that.  My  pet,  go  up  to  your  room 
and  change  these  dripping  clothes.  I  don  t  want  to  lose 
you,  too." 

•'  Better  so,"  the  girl  said,  wearily.  "  Better  end  it  all, 
and  lie  down  and  die  with  them.  Others  would  die  of 
half  this  misery,  but  I  only  suffer  and  live  on  ! " 

Slowly  and  spiritlessly  she  ascended  the  stairs  to  her 
own  familiar  room.  She  changed  her  wet  garments, 
bathed  her  aching  head,  brushed  out  the  rippling,  yellow 
ringlets — all  in  a  weary,  aimless  sort  of  way — and  then  re- 
turned to  the  apartment  below.  It  was  a  very  simple 
toilet  she  had  ma!de,  and  her  black  dress  was  frayed  and 
faded,  and  scant  and  ill-made  ;  but  for  all  that  she  was 
well  worth  looking  at. 

She  was  very  pretty,  in  spite  of  her  pallor — so  brightly 
pretty,  that  it  was  a  pleasure  only  to  look  at  her. 

"  My  own  darling  ! "  the  old  nurse  said,  fondly  kissing 
her,  *'  you  are  more  beautiful  than  ever,  and  almost  a  wo- 
man at  sixteen.  It's  a  sad  pity,  but  oh  dear,  dear  !  how 
can  I  help  it  ?    To  think  you  can  go  to  school  no  more." 

"I  must  only  study  at  home,"  Magdalen  said,  "and 
practise  my  music  as  well  as  I  can.  I  suppose  no  one 
would  be  willing  to  engage  a  governess  only  sixteen  years 
old.     Have  we  enough  to  live  on  for  a  year,  Rachel  ?  " 

*'  More  than  enough,  surely.  Your  poor  papa's  lawyer, 
Mr.  Hammond,  will  tell  you.    It  is  very  hard,  my  poor 


«  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

dear,  you  should  have  to  go  out  into  the  big,  wicked, 
cruel  world,  to  earn  your  own  living  at  all.  You  are  a 
great  deal  too  pretty." 

"•  Kachel,"  said  Magdalen,  abruptly,  "  where  is  Laura  ? 
I  want  to  see  her." 

**  She's  laid  out  in  the  parlor,  poor  darling  !  Widow 
Morgan  sat  up  with  me  the  last  night,  and  she  helped  me 
afterward  to  lay  her  out.  Siie  makes  a  lovely  corpse — 
sweet,  pale  lamb — and  peaceful  as  an  angel.  Don't  go 
now.  Take  some  tea  first.  You  look  fagged  out  and  I 
shall  have  you  sick  on  my  hands,  too." 

"  You  don't  know  how  strong  I  am,"  said  Magdalen. 
"  I  have  grown  of  late  tired  of  my  life,  of  the  world,  of 
myself,  of  everything  ;  but  nothing  hurts  me.  I  suffer 
and  live  on.  Others,  more  fortunate,  would  suffer  and 
die." 

She  drank  the  tea,  strove  to  eat,  and  failed. 

"  It's  of  no  use,  Rachel — I  can't.  I  feel  as  though  it 
were  choking  me.  Let  me  go  and  see  my  sister ;  then 
you  shall  tell  me  all. " 

Rachel  arose  and  led  the  way  down  the  hall,  bearing  a 
light.  In  dead  silence  she  opened  the  parlor  door  and 
Magdalen  followed  her  in. 

The  cottage  parlor  was  very  like  any  other  cottage  par- 
lor, plainly  and  prettily  furnished.  Carpet  and  furnitare 
and  pictures  were  all  very  simple  and  bright  and  nice  : 
but  one  ghastly  object  was  there  to  chill  the  quiet  beauty 
of  the  picture. 

In  the  center  of  the  floor  stood  a  long  table,  draped  in 
ghostly  white.  Awfully  stiff  and  rigid,  under  a  white 
sheet,  could  be  seen  the  outline  of  what  lay  stark  and  dead 
thereon. 

Magdalen  paused  on  the  threshold  and  laid  her  hand  on 
Rachel's  arm,  her  eyes  fixed,  large  and  dilated,  on  that 
ghastly  sight.  The  dim  lamplight  showed  her  face,  with 
its  stare  of  white  horror. 

"Leave  me  alone,  Rachel  I  "she  said,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper.     "  Go  !  " 

There  was  that  in  her  nursling's  face  the  old  woman 
dared  not  disobey.  She  turned  reluctantly  away  and  left 
the  room. 

The  girl  advanced  and  stood  beside  the  bed.  Only  the 
Boft  sobbing  of  the  October  rain,  the  shuddering  wail  of 


MAGDALEN,  » 

the  night  wind  and  the  solemn  snrging  of  the  pine  trees, 
broke  the  silence  of  the  room. 

With  a  face  like  snow,  like  marble,  she  drew  the  sheet 
down,  and  gazed  upon  the  sister  she  had  loved  so  well.  It 
was  a  face  wonderfully  beautiful  in  its  last  dreamless 
sleep — more  beautiful,  perhaps,  than  it  had  ever  been  in 
life.  The  straight,  delicate  features  were  like  her  own  ; 
so  was  the  mass  of  burnished  hair,  combed  away  from  the 
icy  brow.  The  hands  were  folded  together  across  the 
bosom  ;  the  sweet,  beautiful  lips  were  closed  with  an  in- 
effable expression  of  rest.  Too  solemn  for  words  to  tell 
was  the  unutterable  peace  of  that  death  sleep. 

'*  And  it  all  ends  here  !  "  Magdalen  thought.  "  Youth 
and  hope  and  innocence  !  Sweetness  and  beauty  and 
tenderest  love,  could  not  save  her  one  poor  hour  from 
ruin  and  the  grave  !     Oh,  my  sister — my  sister  !  " 

She  dropped  on  her  knees  and  laid  her  face  on  the 
marble  breast.  Xo  tear  fell,  no  sob  shook  her  slender 
frame.  She  seemed  to  have  passed  beyond  all  that.  The 
steady  drip,  drip,  of  the  ceaseless  rain,  the  mournful  sigh- 
ing of  the  wind,  sounded  like  a  dirge  for  tlie  dead.  So 
long  she  knelt  there  that  old  Rachel,  growing  alarmed, 
opened  the  door  and  came  in. 

"My  child!  my  child  !"  in  an  awe-struck  whisper, 
"come  away.     This  will  never  do!" 

The  girl  got  up  at  once,  pale  as  the  dead  sister  lying  be- 
fore her,  and  almost  as  rigid.  One  last  look  and  she  fol- 
lowed the  old  nurse  out  into  the  kitchen.  She  sat  down 
before  the  fire,  that  icy  calm  still  over  all. 

"  And  now,  Rachel,"  she  said,  "  tell  me  the  whole 
story. " 

The  dead  girl's  sleeping  child  lay  cozily  in  RacheFs  lap, 
as  she  rocked  to  and  fro  in  her  nurse  chair. 

"  It's  a  short  enough  story,"  she  said,  with  a  heavy  sigh, 
**  to  contain  so  much  misery.  Let  me  see.  It  was  last 
September,  twelve  months,  you  went  away  to  New  Haven, 
to  school  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Well,  one  week  after,  the  trouble  began.  Willie,  yoa 
know,  was  not  going  to  New  York,  to  continue  his  medi- 
cal studies,  until  December,  and  he  spent  a  good  deal  of 
his  time  in  the  woods,  fishing  and  shooting,  and  in  the 
village  loitering  about  the  hotel.     It  was  there  he  met  tho 


10  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

villain  who  brought  all  our  misery — a  wretch  for  whom 
hanging  would  be  a  great  deal  too  good  !  " 

Magdalen's  teeth  clenched  and  her  eyes  suddenly 
blazed  up. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said  ;  "  tell  me  his  name." 

"  His  name  was  Maurice  Langley,  and  he  was  very  hand- 
some. Tall  and  fair,  you  know,  with  dark,  curling  hair, 
and  a.  black  mustache.  He  had  come  to  the  country  for  a 
month's  fishing  and  Willie  and  he  grew  as  intimate  as 
brothers.  Willie  brought  him  home  and  your  poor  papa 
and  Laura  were  taken  with  him  at  once.  He  had  such 
winning  ways,  such  a  pleasant  laugh  and  such  a  charming, 
offhand  manner,  that  he  took  people's  fancy  at  first  sight. 
He  could  play  the  piano  better  than  Laura  and  sing  most 
beautiful,  and  he  could  talk  to  your  papa  like  a  book.  He 
fascinated  all  of  us  the  very  first  visit  and  I  don't  know 
who  sang  his  praises  loudest  when  he  went  away.  It  was 
not  Laura  ;  she  said  nothing  ;  but  there  was  a  look  in  her 
sweet  face  that  told  far  more  than  words. 

* '  After  that  Mr.  Langley  was  every  day  and  nearly  all 
of  every  day,  at  the  house.  He  and  Laura  were  always 
together,  playing  and  singing,  and  drawing. and  reading. 
And  the  more  we  saw  of  him,  the  better  we  liked  him,  and 
we  never  tried  to  check  this  intimacy.  And  that  month 
passed,  and  the  next  came,  and  Mr.  Langley  began  to  talk 
of  going  home.  I  don't  know  rightly  where  his  home  was, 
but  I  think  in  New  York,  where  he  was  studying  law,  he 
told  us.  The  middle  of  October  he  did  go,  shaking  hands 
with  the  whole  of  us,  the  villain,  and  saying  he  would 
never  forget  the  pleasant  days  he  had  spent  amongst  our 
New  Hampshire  hills. 

"  I  was  afraid  Laura  would  droop  and  fret  after  him, 
but  she  didn't.  She  sang  as  blithely  about  the  house  as 
ever,  and  how  was  I  to  know  she  was  only  waiting  a  letter 
from  him'to  follow  him  ?  That  they  had  it  all  arranged 
beforehand  ?  Before  the  month  closed  the  letter  came. 
Laura  bade  us  good-night  the  evening  that  brought  it,  and 
next  morning,  when  1  went  to  call  her  to  breakfast,  she 
was  gone." 

There  was  a  pause.  Rachel's  tears  were  falling  fast,  but 
Magdalen  sat  staring  straight  at  the  fire,  with  dry,  glitter- 
ing eyes. 

"  There  was  a  note  for  your  papa,  hurried  and  brief, 


MAGDALEN.  11 

telling  him  she  loved  Mr.  Langley,  and  was  gone  to  be 
married.  It  was  necessary,  for  family  reasons,  Mr.  Lang- 
ley  told  her,  tliat  the  marriage  siioiUd  be  strictly  private. 
His  family  wished  him  to  marry  iiis  cousin,  and  he  dared 
not  oppose  them  openly.  Slie  begged  her  father  not  to 
search  for  her  ;  she  would  be  well  and  happy  and  would 
write  again, as  soon  as  she  was  Mr.   Langley's  wife. 

*SShe  never  wrote  again.  It  was  a  terrible  suspense. 
Xobody  would  believe  the  story  of  the  marriage  in  the 
village  and  she  was  disgraced  forever.  Willie  was  furious 
at  first,  lie  would  seek  out  Langlcy  and  shoot  him  like  a 
dog,  if  Laura  was  not  his  wife.  Hut  you  know  "Willie  ; 
his  rage  flew  over.  December  came  ;  he  went  to  New 
York  and  he  had  not  even  tried  to  find  them. 

"  The  next  we  heard  lie  and  Langlcy  were  as  thick  as 
ever.  He  met  Langlcy  in  New  York  and  he  was  Laura's 
husband  ;  but  Laura  was  only  the  wretched  shadow  of 
herself.  They  were  poor  and  lived  in  a  shabby  boarding- 
house,  and  she  was  miserably  dressed.  Langlcy  was  no 
law  student — nothing  but  a  professional  gambler — and  ia 
a  few  months  he  had  made  a  professional  gambler  of  our 
poor,  weak  boy.  He  wrote  and  wrote  perpetually  for 
money,  until  there  was  no  more  to  write  for  ;  he  %va3 
deeply  in  debt  to  Langley  and  others  ;  he  grew  desperate  ; 
he  forged  Doctor  Wentworth's  name  for  two  thousand 
dollars,  was  detected,  arrested,  tried  and  sentenced  for  six 
years." 

Rachel's  voice  sank  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  Magdalen's  face 
had  dropped  in  her  hand  ;  she  never  lifted  it  during  the 
remainder  of  the  story. 

"  That  blow  finished  what  Laura  had  begun.  Yonr 
father  dropped  down  in  a  fit  when  he  heard  it,  and  never 
left  his  bed  after  ;  and  in  September — just  one  year  after 
that  matchless  villain  came  amongst  us — he  was  laid  be- 
side your  mamma  in  the  churchyard. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  how  desolate  I  felt  here  alone,  Mag- 
dalen. They  all  wanted  me  to  send  for  you  right  away, 
but  I  hadn't  the  heart.  I  seemed  to  know  poor  Laura 
would  come  back  and  I  waited  for  that. 

"Early  in  October,  one  stormy  night,  when  the  wind 
blew  a  gale,  and  the  rain  fell  in  torrents,  she  came.  She 
walked,  in  all  the  downpour,  from  the  station,  and  I  think 
that  helped  to  give  her  her  death  blow.     But  she  would 


n  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

have  died  anyway.  She  wanted  nothing  but  to  get  back 
to  the  old  home  and  die.  Oh,  that  clianged  face  ! — so 
haggard,  so  heart-broken  !  My  poor  nursling  !  And  so 
wretched  and  miserably  dressed  !  She  gave  one  scream 
when  I  told  her  that  her  father  was  dead  and  dropped 
down  in  a  dead  faint. 

"  Ah,  what  a  wretched,  wretched  time  it  was  !  I  never 
saw  despair  before,  and  I  pray  God  I  never  may  again.  I 
wanted  to  send  for  you,  but  she  cried  out,  in  a  wild,  fren- 
zied sort  of  way  : 

"  '  No  !  no  !  no  !  not  for  ten  thousand  worlds  !  I  am 
not  fit  to  breathe  the  same  air  she  does  !  Magdalen  is  my 
name,  not  hers  !     Send  for  her  when  I  am  dead  ! ' 

*'  Once,  and  once  only,  I  spoke  of  Langley.  She  had 
been  quiet  for  hours,  sitting  crouching  over  the  fire.  At 
the  sound  of  his  name  she  started  up  and  tossed  the  hair 
back  from  her  face  like  a  mad  woman. 

"'Don't  speak  of  him!'  she  cried  out;  '  he  is  the 
blackest  and  basest  villain  on  the  face  of  the  earth  !  My 
curse  on  him  wherever  he  goes  ! ' 

"My  poor  Magdalen,  it  is  terrible  to  have  to  tell  you 
of  such  things.  After  that  I  never  mentioned  Langley^s 
name,  nor  your  father's,  nor  Willie's.  I  left  her  to  her- 
Felf.  The  few  days  before  her  last  illness  she  spent  in 
writing  a  letter.  It  took  her  a  long  time,  she  was  so  very 
weak  ;  but  she  finished  it  at  last,  and  told  me  to  give  it  to 
you  when  she  was  dead  and  buried. 

"  '  I  have  told  my  sister  all,'  she  said  ;  '  it  may  keep 
her  from  quite  hating  my  memory  when  I  am  gone  ! ' 

"  From  that  hour  I  could  see  death  approaching.  The 
doctor  and  the  clergyman  knew  as  Avell  as  I  did  she  would 
never  rise  from  her  bed  again.  I  wrote  for  you,  but  you 
came  too  late.     Laura's  earthly  troubles  are  over." 

With  fast-falling  tears,  Eachel's  story  of  sin  and  suffer- 
ing closed.  The  rain  and  wind,  that  had  made  a  dismal 
accompaniment  to  her  dismal  words,  the  light  fall  of  red 
cinders,  the  ticking  of  the  old  clock,  had  the  silence  to 
themselves  ;  and  Magdalen  cowered  before  the  fire,  her 
face  hidden,  hearing  all,  and  never  moving  or  looking  up. 


THE  DEAD  SISTEE'S  LETTER.  13 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  DEAD  SISTER'S  LETTER. 

Through  tlie  gray  gloom  of  another  dull  October  day 
the  scant  funeral  procession  left  the  cottage,  and  took 
their  way  to  the  village  churchyard.  The  coffin  plate  told 
the  dead  girl's  mournful  but  too  common  history  : 

Laura  Allward.     Aged  18. 

Laura  Allward  !  And  her  baby  wailed  in  old  Rachel's 
faithful  arms.  That  was  why  only  one  or  two  elderly 
.natrons  came  near  the  cottage,  and  why  such  a  handful 
of  men  followed  the  hearse,  gloomily,  to  the  grave  ! 

It  was  not  customary  in  that  little  New  England  village 
for  women  to  attend  funerals,  but  Magdalen  Allward,  with 
a  thick  veil  over  her  face,  and  a  heavy  shawl  drawn  around 
her  slender  form,  followed  her  sister  to  the  grave.  Curious 
eyes  peeped  from  closed  Avindows  to  scan  that  black-draped, 
girlish  figure,  and  heads  shook  ominously,  and  croaking 
voices  hoped  she  might  come  to  a  good  end.  But  they 
doubted  it — these  good  people  ;  tiie  taint  of  her  sister's 
shame,  her  brother's  disgrace,  would  cling  to  her  like  a 
garment  of  fire,  through  life. 

The  sods  rattled  down  on  the  coffin  lid,  the  men  stood 
by  with  bare  heads.  Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust,  and 
then  the  sexton,  blue  and  cold,  in  the  bleak  October 
weather,  filled  up  the  grave  in  a  hurry,  and  slapped  briskly 
on  the  sods.  And  all  the  time  tlie  veiled  figure  of  the 
lonely  girl  stood  apart,  forlorn  and  shivering  in  the  raw 
blasts.  One  by  one  the  men  straggled  away  and  left  her 
there,  as  desolate  and  forsaken  a  creature  as  the  whole 
world  held. 

The  new-made  grave  was  under  a  clump  of  melancholy 
fir  trees,  worried  by  the  high  wind,  and  writhing  like 
things  in  human  agony.  Side  by  side  lay  two  others, 
sacred  to  the  memory  of  John  Allward  and  his  wife  Helen, 
but  forever  and  ever  that  new-made  grave  must  lie  name- 
less. 

Magdalen  Allward  looked  up  with  a  shiver  at  the  low- 


14  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

lying  sky,  gray  and  desolate  as  her  young  life,  and  slowly, 
slowly  turned  away  at  last.  Heaven  knows  what  her 
thoughts  had  been  while  she  stood  there,  alone  among  the 
dead,  alone  among  the  living,  and  felt  that  one  man  had 
wrought  all  this  misery,  and  disgrace,  and  death.  Her 
veiled  face  kept  her  secret  well,  as  she  walked  wearily 
homeward  through  the  windy  twilight. 

Rachel  sat  before  the  fire,  holding  the  baby,  and  croon- 
ing softly  as  she  rocked  it  asleep.  Magdalen  threw  back 
her  veil,  stooped  and  kissed  it. 

"  Then  you  are  not  going  to  dislike  it,"  the  nurse  said, 
looking  relieved.     "  I  was  afraid  you  would." 

"  Dislike  it !     Dislike  a  little  babe  !  " 

*'  You  know  what  I  mean,  dear — for  that  villain's  sake." 

Magdalen  rose  up  suddenly,  her  face  darkening  vindic- 
tively. 

''  You  are  right  ;  I  ought  to  hate  it — spawn  of  a  viper 
— as  I  hate  him  !  But,  no  ;  it  is  Laura's  baby  ;  I  will  try 
and  like  it,  for  Laura's  sake.  I  am  going  to  my  room 
now,  Rachel.  I  am  worn  out.  No,  I  want  nothing  but 
rest.     Good  night." 

She  quitted  the  room,  ascended  to  her  own,  with  slow, 
weary  steps,  undressed,  and  then  threw  herself  upon  the 
bed.  Worn  out  she  surely  was,  and  scarcely  had  her  head 
touched  the  pillow  than  she  was  asleep — the  sound,  blessed 
sleep  of  youth  and  health. 

It  was  almost  noon  next  day  when  she  came  down-stairs. 
Breakfast  awaited  her  and  in  dark  silence  and  moody  she 
ate  it.     As  she  arose  from  the  table  she  said  : 

''Rachel,  where  is  the  letter  Laura  left  for  me  ?" 

Rachel  produced  it  at  once.  A  thick  letter,  in  a  buff 
envelope,  sealed  and  addressed  : 

To  My  Sister  Magdalen.     To  be  read  when  I  am  buried. 

Magdalen  stood  silently  gazing  at  the  familiar  handwrit- 
ing for  a  few  moments,  then,  silently  still,  she  turned  and 
walked  out  of  the  kitchen.  Rachel  looked  after  her  un- 
easily. 

"  She  is  going  to  read  it  in  her  own  room.  Poor  child  ! 
I  hope  it  may  not  distress  her  much.  Her  troubles  are  too 
heavy  for  her  sixteen  years." 

Rachel  was  mistaken  ;  she  was  not  going  to  read  it  in 


THE  DEAD  SISTER'S  LETTER.  15 

her  own  room.  She  came  down  presently  dressed  for  a 
walk,  holding  the  letter  in  her  hand. 

'*  Wliere  are  you  going  witli  that  letter,  Magdalen?" 
the  old  wojiiun  asked,  in  alarm. 

The  girl  paused  on  the  threshold  to  answer  her. 

"  I  am  going  to  read  Laura's  letter  beside  Laura's  grave. 
It  will  seem  like  her  voice  speaking  to  me  from  the  dead." 

Magdalen  could  not  have  chosen  a  more  secluded  or 
lonely  spot.  Shut  in  by  firs  and  hemlock,  a  place  where 
no  one  ever  came,  save  on  a  sunny  Sunday  afternoon,  she 
was  not  likely  to  be  disturbed.  On  a  rustic  bench,  under 
the  gloomy  firs,  she  sat  down,  threw  back  her  veil  and 
reverently  opened  the  letter.  It  was  long  and  closely 
written,  and  there,  by  the  writer's  grave,  seemed  indeed 
a  voice  from  the  dead.     Magdalen  read  : 

My  Dearest  Sister  : 

When  you  read  this  the  grave  will  have  closed  over  me, 
and — and  when  you  know  the  whole  truth  you  may  learn 
at  least  to  think  pityingly  of  the  dead  sister  who  has 
blighted  your  young  life,  but  who  has  been  more  "  sinned 
against  than  sinning."  It  is  a  little  more  than  a  year  ago, 
and  yet  what  a  century  of  sin  and  misery  it  seems.  My 
little  Magdalen  !  my  pretty,  gentle,  golden-haired  sister  ! 
How  little  1  thought  when  I  kissed  you  good-by,  that 
sunny  September  morning,  it  would  be  good-by  "forever 
and  ever. 

Rachel  will  tell  you  how  I  left  home — she  can  tell  you 
no  more.  Not  how  I  loved  Maurice  Langley  ;  not  how  I 
believed  in  him  ;  not  how  I  trusted  him.  He  was  the 
veriest  hero  of  romance — the  prince  of  my  silly  girlish 
dreams — and  I  loved  him  madly,  after  the  fashion  of  fool- 
ish, novel-reading  girls,  and  thought  the  sunshine  of  heaven 
not  half  so  bright  as  his  smile.  And  he — oh,  Magda- 
len ;  it  was  easy  for  him — false  to  the  core  of  his  deceitful 
heart — to  take  me  in  his  arms,  and  make  me  think  I  was 
all  the  world  to  him.  1  listened  and  I  trusted,  and  was 
wrapt  in  ecstasy — delirious  with  love  and  delight — and 
like  plastic  wax  in  the  hands  of  a  molder,  I  heard  his 
plausible  story,  and  I  believed  it  as  I  believed  the  Scrip- 
tures. It  must  be  a  secret  marriage,  or  a  total  separation. 
His  parents  would  never  consent  to  an  open  marriage,  and 
my  father  would  never  consent  to  a  clandestine  one.    Sd 


36  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

I  must  fly.  Separation  to  me  was  worse  than  death.  1 
consented  to  anything— everything — rather  than  that. 

He  arranged  it  all  that  night,  with  the  ready  facility,  I 
know  now,  of  one  well  used  to  such  deception.  In  two  days 
he  would  start  for  New  York — make  all  necessary  arrange- 
ments— I  was  to  follow,  and  join  him  there.  A  clergyman, 
a  college  friend  of  his,  would  perform  the  ceremony  with- 
in an  hour  of  my  arrival,  and  then  no  more  partings  from 
his  darling  Laura  in  this  lower  world.  Oh,  never  did 
Satan,  in  tempting  Eve,  paint  the  forbidden  fruit  in  more 
dazzling  colors  than  did  my  tempter  in  alluring  me. 

Magclalen,  I  consented.  I  left  my  home — my  father — 
all  that  was  dear  to  me  in  this  world,  for  my  lover. 

I  reached  New  York.  He  was  there  as  I  left  the  cars, 
impatiently  awaiting  me,  for  he  loved  me  then,  with  a 
fierce,  impetuous  love — too  burning  to  last.  And  he  kept 
his  promise — within  the  hour  a  marriage  ceremony  took 
place.  A  clergyman,  white-haired  and  venerable,  married 
us  at  the  hotel,  without  witnesses,  and  immediately  de- 
parted. I  had  no  doubts  of  its  validity — no  thought  of 
any  horrible  fraud.  I  was  his  wife,  or  death  by  torture 
would  not  have  kept  me  by  his  side  one  moment,  dearly  as 
I  loved  him. 

We  lived  in  the  hotel,  quiet  and  retired,  and  I  was  un- 
utterably happy,  unutterably  blessed.  There  was  but  one 
drawback  to  my  perfect  joy — he  would  not  let  me  write 
home.  And  that  refusal  was  the  forerunner — the  first  of 
the  misery  that  was  to  come.  It  came  soon — very  soon — 
bitter  and  heavy.  Indifference  began — coldness,  neglect, 
cruelty.  He  left  me  alone,  day  after  day,  night  after 
night.  When  he  did  return  it  was  always  brutally  drunk, 
and  in  drunkenness  the  truth  came  out.  The  man  I  had 
married  was  a  professed  gambler. 

After  that  bitter  blow  the  others  followed  fast.  Cold- 
ness and  cruelty  turned  to  loathing  and  hate.  I  was  a 
nuisance  and  a  burden  to  him.  He  wished  he  had  never 
seen  me  ;  he  was  a  fool  for  encumbering  himself  with  a 
white-faced,  pitiful,  whimpering  cry-baby.  He  took  me 
from  the  hotel  and  placed  me  in  a  shabby  boarding-house, 
reeking  with  foul  smells  and  loathing  sights  ;  he  swore  at 
me  when  he  came  home  reeling,  beastly  drunk,  and  often, 
often  Magdalen,  maddened  with  liquor  and  losses,  he  struck 
me.    It  was  after  that  Willie  came.     They  met  and  Mau- 


THE  DEAD  SISTER'S  LETTER.  IV 

rice  obtained  liis  old  ascendency  over  Willie's  weak  mind. 
He  conld  be  so  agreeable,  so  delightful,  so  fascinating, 
when  he  chose.  He  brougiit  Willie  home,  apologizing  in 
his  laughing  way  for  our  Bohemian  lodgings,  and,  know- 
ing well  I  would  never  betray  him.  Glod  knows  I  tried  to 
save  Willie.  I  warned  him.  I  did  what  I  could,  but  it 
vas  all  in  vain.  In  a  few  months  he  was  in  a  felon's  cell, 
or  forgery.  It  was  through  an  anonymous  letter  the  news 
'ached  me  first,  written  in  a  man's  hand,  very  brief,  Ijut 
uU  of  api)alling  facts.  Maurice  Langley  was  the  most 
:Vorthless  of  all  worthless  scoundrels,  false  and  corrupt  ta 
the  core  of  his  heart.  His  name  was  not  Langley  ;  that 
name  was  as  false  as  the  dyed  hair  and  mustache  lie  wore 
to  disguise  himself.  I  was  not  his  wife — that  ceremony 
in  the  hotel  was  the  most  contemptible  of  shams  ;  he  had 
a  bona-(ide  wife  living  before  he  ever  saw  me,  and  living 
still — deserted.  I  had  been  fooled  from  the  first  to  last. 
If  I  doubted  the  charges,  let  me  show  the  letter  to  Lang- 
ley, and  let  him  disprove  them  if  he  dare. 

I  did  not  doubt.  Conviction,  strong  as  death,  seized 
upon  me  from  the  first.  I  was  so  stunned  by  repeated 
blows  tliat  I  sat  in  a  sort  of  numb  despair,  hardly  con- 
scious tliat  I  suffered.  A  horrible  stupor  held  me — I  sat 
without  a  tear  or  groan,  waiting  for  my  betrayer  to  come. 

He  came  some  time  Ijefore  midnight,  drunk  as  usual, 
reeling  into  the  room,  singing  a  vulgar  song.  I  rose  up 
and  put  the  letter  in  his  hand,  without  saying  a  word.  He 
read' it  through  and  burst  out  with  an  oath:  "That 
scoundrel,  Burns,  1  always  knew  he  would  peach  !  Well, 
my  girl,  it's  all  true,  and  now  what  are  yon  going  to  do 
about  it  ?" 

I  stood  there  before  him  and  looked  him  straight  in  the 
face  until  he  quailed.  I  never  spoke  a  word.  I  went  over 
to  the  bed  where  my  shawl  and  bonnet  lay  and  put  them 
on. 

*'  Where  arc  you  going  ?"  he  said. 

''I  am  going  home." 

I  don't  know  what  there  was  in  my  face  that  awed  and 
sobered  him.  I  dare  say  he  thought  me  mad.  He  kept 
aloof,  very  pale,  watching  me. 

"■  It's  the  middle  of  the  night,  Laura,"  he  said,  *'  don't 
go.     Wait  until  morning." 

I  heard  hmi,  as  we  hear  people  talking  in  a  dream.     I 


18  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

never  heeded — I  opened  the  door  and  walked  out  into  a 
blind,  black  night,  as  wretched  a  creature  as  ever  trod  the 
pave. 

I  wandered  about  until  morning.  I  think  I  was  light- 
headed. There  was  a  mad,  reckless  longing  in  my  half- 
crazed  brain  to  go  home — to  fall  at  my  father's  feet,  to 
sob  out  my  sin  and  die.  How  I  got  to  the  station,  how  I 
knew  enough  to  take  my  ticket  and  start  on  my  journey, 
I  cannot  tell.  It  is  all  confused  and  bewildering.  The 
first  distinct  impression  I  had  was  of  being  face  to  face 
with  Eachel,  and  hearing  her  say  my  father  was  dead. 

I  have  no  more  to  tell — my  story  and  my  life  are  done. 

You  will  think  as  pityingly  and  as  forgivingly  of  me  as 
you  can,  and  if  my  child  lives  you  will  take  its  dead 
mother's  place.  Never  let  its  father  look  on  it  if  you  can 
prevent  it — he  is  my  murderer — your  father's — Willie's.  I 
cannot  forgive  him- — I  cannot !     I  am  dying  and  I  cannot. 

Farewell,  my  sister  ;  may  your  life  be  as  happy  as  mine 
has  been  miserable.  I  leave  this  record  in  Justice  to  my- 
self.    Don't  hate  poor  Laura's  memory  when  she  is  gone. 

There  the  letter  ended.  Magdalen  looked  up,  whiter 
than  snow — whiter  than  death.  The  twilight  had  fallen, 
the  stars  swung  silver-white,  the  young  moon  shimmered 
on  the  edge  of  an  opal-tinted  sky,  and  the  evening  wind 
sighed  forlornly  among  the  melancholy  firs.  The  girl 
dropped  the  letter,  fell  on  her  knees  by  her  sister's  grave, 
and,  clasping  her  hands,  held  up  her  pale  face  to  the 
starry  sky. 

"  Hear  me,  oh  God  ! "  she  cried,  "  hear  the  vow  of  a 
desolate  orphan — of  a  blighted  and  ruined  life  !  From 
this  hour  I  swear  to  devote  myself  to  the  discovery  of  my 
sister's  murderer — to  the  avenging  of  my  sisters  wrongs. 
Thou  who  hast  said,  '  an  eye  for  an  eye,  a  tooth  for  a  tooth, 
and  a  life  for  a  life,'  hear  me,  and  help  me  to  keep  my 
vow  ! " 

She  dropped  down,  her  colorless,  rigid  face,  lying  on 
Laura's  grave  as  if  waiting  some  response  to  her  wild  appeal. 
But  no  sound  responded — only  the  dreary  wailing  of  the 
cold  October  wind  over  the  lonely  graves. 


MR.  GEORGE  BARSTONE.  19 


CHAPTER  III. 

MR.   GEORGE  BARSTONE. 

The  cloudless  sunshine  of  a  June  morning,  streaming 
tli rough  the  hotel  windows,  made  squares  of  luminous 
glory  on  the  gaudy  Brussels  car])et,  and  slione  and  scintil- 
lated ou  the  china  and  silver  of  a  fresidy  laid  breakfast 
table.  A  white-aproned  waiter  had  just  borne  in  the 
steaming  colfee  and  steak  and  rolls,  and  now  stood  anx- 
iously awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  gentleman  who  was  to 
demolish  these  edibles  before  they  grew  cold.  The  early 
mail  had  just  arrived,  and,  piled  beside  the  hot  plates, 
wereabout  twenty  letters  in  white  envelopes,  and  in  dainty 
— more  or  less — female  hands.  The  Herald,  all  damp, 
and  smelling  very  strong  of  printer's  ink,  lay  beside  them. 

''Good  morning,  William,"  said  Mr.  Barstone.  "Nice 
sort  of  day,  isn't  it  ?  Hey  !  The  mail  got  in,  and  half  a 
bushel  of  notes  for  me  !  All  from  ladies,  William — every 
one  from  ladies,  bless  their  precious  little  hearts  !  Pour 
out  the  coffee  like  a  good  fellow,  and  then  go." 

William  obeyed,  whipped  the  silver  covers  off  the  steak 
and  eggs,  and  took  his  departure,  leaving  Mr.  Barstone  to 
eat  and  read  at  his  leisure. 

Mr.  Barstone  seated  himself  at  the  table,  tumbling  over 
the  pile  of  letters,  shook  his  head  reflectively  as  lie  counted 
twenty,  buttered  his  first  roll  and  unfolded  the  moist 
newspaper. 

He  was  a  big  man — this  Mr.  George  Barstone — six  feet, 
if  an  inch,  witli  broad  shoulders,  fair  hair,  blue  eyes  and  a 
good-looking,  good-humored  face. 

Very  leisurely  he  ate  and  read,  swallowing  the  "  horrid 
murders,"  and  robberies,  and  awful  accidents,  with  his 
coffee  and  underdone  steak.  By  and  by  he  turned  to  the 
advertisements  and  glanced  down  the  long  columns  of 
**  wants."     At  one  he  suddenly  paused. 

WANTED— A  Governess.  ""Must  be  under  twenty-five, 
of  attractive  appearance,  willing  to  reside  in  the  country. 


ftO  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

and  proficient  in  mnsic,  drawing  and  French.  Terms 
liberal.     Address  G.  B.,  Herald  Office. 

Mr.  Barstone  perused  this  advertisement  with  extraor- 
dinary relish,  considering  how  often  he  had  read  it  be- 
fore. Then  he  lluug  down  the  papers  and  turned  to  the 
letters  with  a  look  of  commiseration. 

"Poor  little  things!"  he  said,  tossing  them  over; 
**  twenty  to-day,  and  eighteen  yesterday  ;  all  under  twenty- 
five — all  attractive  and  all  proficient  in  music,  French  and 
drawing.  Poor  little  souls  !  I  wish  I  could  engage  the 
whole  of  them,  and  take  them  to  Connecticut  with  me, 
and  settle  them  in  a  colony  of  pretty  white  cottages,  and 

fension  them  off  with  husbands  and  dowries.  But  I  can't, 
can  only  give  thirty-seven  my  deepest  compassion,  and 
bring  the  thirty-eighth  home  with  me  to  Golden  Wil- 
lows." 

Mr.  Barstone  plunged  at  once  into  business  and  began 
tearing  open  the  white  missives.  They  were  all  more  ot 
less  alike  ;  the  writers  were  all  twenty  or  thereabouts,  pre- 
possessing to  look  at,  possessed  of  the  requisite  arts  and  all 
perfectly  willing  to  reside  in  the  country. 

The  gravity  of  Mr.  Barstone's  face,  as  he  read  these 
pHeous  appeals,  was  a  sight  to  see. 

"  Poor  little  soul  !  poor  little  thing  ! "  he  interjected, 
compassionately,  after  each,  as  it  fluttered  down  among 
the  white  drifts  on  the  carpet.  *' '  How  happy  could  I  be 
witli  either  were  t'other  dear  charmer  away  ! '  Any  one 
of  them  would  do  ;  but  how  in  the  world  is  a  fellow  to 
choose  among  so  many  ?  I  wish  Fanny  was  here  to  help 
me." 

The  last  of  the  twenty  seemed  to  impress  Mr.  Barstone. 
There  was  no  particular  reason  why  it  should,  either.  It 
was  daintily  written,  but  so  were  the  rest,  and  it  was 
briefer  and  less  elaborate  than  most. 

The  writer  did  not  even  mention  her  good  looks,  and 
she  was  the  only  one  who  had  omitted  that  important 
item.  She  was  under  twenty,  she  said — eighteen  that 
very  month — and  had  but  a  year's  experience  as  governess. 
A  personal  interview  could  be  had  by  calling  at  No.— 
West  Twenty-third  Street,  and  the  note  was  signed 
"  Magdalen  Wayne." 

Perhaps  it  was  the  pretty,  peculiar  name  that  struck  his 
fancy,  and  Mr.  Barstone  was  whimsical  in  his  fancies; 


MR.  GEORGE  BARSTONE.  21 

but  he  folded  this  note  up  and  put  it  in  his  pocket,  with 
the  resolution  of  calling  at  No.  —  West  Twenty-third 
Street.  On  the  trifle  of  a  name  destinies  hang — on  the 
turning  of  a  hair  whole  lives  balance.  He  pulled  out  his 
watch  and  saw  that  it  was  nearly  eleven. 

"  I'll  jump  into  an  omnibus  and  go  there  at  once,'* 
thought  the  young  man.  "  I'm  very  sorry  for  you," 
apostrophizing"  the  other  letters  as  he  picked  them  up — 
"  deuoedly  sorry  ;  but  what's  a  man  to  do  ?  If  Magdalen 
Wayne  don't  suit,  I'll  try  some  of  you  ;  but,  I've  a  pre- 
sentiment that  she  will." 

The  house  in  Twenty-third  Street  was  very  easily  found 
— a  stately  brownstone  front.  Mr,  Barstone  rang  the  bell, 
inquired  for  Miss  Magdalen  Wayne,  and  was  ushered  at 
once  into  a  handsome  parlor. 

"  What  name,  sir  ?  "  insinuated  the  damsel  in  calico, 
hovering,  expectant,  on  the  threshold,  and  the  gentleman 
pulled  Miss  Wayne's  note  out  of  his  pocket  by  way  of 
reply. 

"  Give  her  that,"  he  said,  "and  tell  her  I'm  the  person 
whose  advertisement  she  answered." 

The  girl  departed  and  Mr.  Barstone  was  left  to  his  re- 
flections. 

"  Silence  and  solitude,"  he  thought,  glancing  around 
and  taking  stock.  "  '  I  dreamt  that  I  dwelt  in  marble 
halls,  with  vassals  and ' — nice  style  of  thing  this.  Miss 
Wayne's  lines  seem  to  have  fallen  in  pleasant  places.  In- 
laid tables,  pretty  pictures,  velvet  carpets,  grand  piano — 
remarkably  nice,  indeed  !     I  hope  she'll  hurry." 

But  she  didn't  hurry.  Ten  minutes  passed — fifteen — 
half  an  hour.  Mr.  Barstone  fidgeted  in  his  cushioned 
chair  as  if  it  had  been  stuffed  with  squirming  eels. 

"  I  might  have  known  how  it  would  be,"  he  mused, 
despondingly  ;  "  she  is  doing  up  her  hair.  Fanny  ahvays 
does  up  her  hair  when  gentlemen  call.  If  one  could  only 
smoke,  or  if  I  had  brought  the  Police  Gazette,  or  some- 
thing entertaining  to  read." 

But  all  things  come  to  an  end.  Just  there  the  door 
opened,  and,  with  a  mighty  rustling  of  silk,  a  lady  swept 
stormily  in. 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  kept  you  waiting  an  'orrid  length  of 
time,"  burst  out  the  lady,  volubly  ;  "  but  1  was  so  busy 
with  the   children,  and  nobody  knows  what  a  torment 


22  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

children  are  except  those  that  have  to  deal  with  them. 
You  really  must  excuse  me,  for  I  couldn't  have  helped  it 
anyway." 

Mr.  Barstonc  gazed  aghast.  The  lady  was  short  and 
fat — dreadfully  fat — with  a  high-colored,  chubby  face,  and 
certainly  never  destined  to  see  thirty-five  again. 

"Oh,   my  heavens!"   thought   Mr.   Barstone,  in  cnr 
sternation,    "she'll  never  do  !     To  think  of  a  woman  . 
her  inches  and  time  of  life  answering  my  advertiseaienL 
for  an  attractive-looking  governess  ! " 

He  rose  as  he  spoke,  his  dismay  vividly  depicted  on  his 
face  and  stared  at  the  lady. 

"  You  are  Miss  Wayne,  are  you  not  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no  ! "  shrilly  cried  the  fat  lady.  "  I'm  Mrs. 
'Oward.  Miss  Wayne  is  my  governess,  and  a  treasureof 
a  governess  she  is ;  and  I  wouldn't  think  of  parting  with 
her  on  any  account  if  she'd  stay,  for  she's  worth  her 
weight  in  gold,  and  Mr.  'Oward  thinks  everything  of  her, 
and  so  do  the  children;  but  it's  natural,  you  know,_she 
shouldn't  care  to  leave  her  native  county  and  go  to  Hing- 
land,  particularly  'aving  relatives  'ere  who  are  entirely 
dependent  upon' her,  and  very  'ard  that  must  be  for  her, 
poor  dear  !     'Ow  many  children  'ave  you  got  ?  " 

Mr.  Barstone,  with  his  breath  quite  taken  away,  and, 
sitting  staring  helplessly,  was  some  time  before  he  could 
realize  this  question  was  addressed  to  him. 

"There  are  no  children!"  exclaimed  the  young  man, 
desperately.  "  It's  a  young  lady— a  ward  of  my  aunt's— 
a  young  lady  of  sixteen.  Pray,  ma'am,"  cutting  in  briskly 
as  he  saw  Mrs.  Howard  about  to  burst  out  afresh,  * 'where 
is  Miss  Wayne,  and  when  can  I  see  her  ?  My  time  is 
precious — very  precious — and  I  want  to  close  the  business 
at  once." 

"And  so  you  can,"  responded  Mrs.  Howard,  "for  she'll 
be  here  directly.  She's  just  run  across  to  Sixth  Avenue, 
to  Miss  Simpkins'  store,  to  match  my  pea-green— oh,  here 
she  is,  now  ! " 

As  she  spoke  the  parlor  door  opened  and  a  yonng  girl 
entered,  recoiling  again  immediately  at  sight  of  a  stranger. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  hurriedly,  I  thought 
you  were  alone." 

"  Oh,  come  right  in,"  cried  Mrs,  Howard.  "  It  is  to 
see  you  this  gentleman  came,  and  he's  been  waiting  good- 


MR.  GEORGE  BARSTONE.  23 

ness  knows  liow  long.  It's  abont  the  advertisement,  my 
dear — '  G.  B.,'  you  know,  my  love — iuul  I'm  sure  the 
situation  will  suit  you,  seeing  tluit  there  are  no  children, 
and  only  one  young  lady,  which  will  be  quite  like  a  sister 
to  you,  I'm  sure.  My  dear  sir,  my  governess,  Miss  Mag- 
dalen Wayne." 

The  young  person  named  bowed  respectfully.  Mr. 
Barstone  rose  up  and  bowed  respectfully  also.  lie  had 
seen,  while  good  ]\Irs.  Howard  chattered,  that  she  was  a 
very  pretty  young  person,  with  a  pule  face,  deep  dark 
eyes,  and  golden  brown  hair,  and  Mr.  Barstone  was  always 
impressed  by  pretty  people.  She  was  stately,  too,  and 
tall,  with  a  certain  queenliness  about  her  that,  perhaps, 
was  a  trifle  out  of  place  in  a  governess. 

"  My  name  is  Barstone,"  said  the  gentleman,  quite  sub- 
dued by  so  much  beauty;  "and  I  am  certain.  Miss 
Wayne,  from  all  Mrs.  Howard  says,  I  will  be  fortunate, 
indeed,  if  I  can  secure  your  services." 

"■  May  I  inquire,  Mr.  Barstone,  where  it  is  ?  " 

"Millford,  Connecticut,"  responded  Mr.  Barstone. 
<'  Millford  is  our  town.  The  place  to  which  you  are  going 
— a  country  villa — is  called  Golden  Willows." 

"And  as  to  terms,  now,"  struck  in  Mrs.  Howard, 
"  Magdalen  has  no  head  for  business,  whatever,  so  you'll 
excuse  my  asking,  I  hope.  They're  liberal  I  trust,  be- 
cause, poor  dear,  she  has  an  old  nurse  and  a  little  niece, 
down  in  New  Hampshire,  to  support.  You  mentioned  in 
the  advertisement,  you  know,  Mr.  Barstone,  'terms 
liberal.'" 

"  Terms  ?  Oh,  yes  ;  my  aunt  requested  me  to  say  five 
hundred  dollars  per  annum." 

"  And  extremely  liberal,  I  am  sure,  that  is  !  "  cried  IMrs. 
Howard  ;  "  do  you  hear,  Magdalen,  my  dear  ?  Only  one 
pupil  and  five  hundred  dollars  per  annum.  I  am  certain, 
Mr.  Barstone,  Magtlalen  is  delighted  to  close  with  your 
offer  at  once." 

Mr.  Barstone  bowed  with  a  beaming  face. 

"  I  will  call  for  you  on  Friday  morning,  at  half-past 
seven.  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Howard— good  morning,  Miss 
Wayne.     I  congratulate  myself  on  my  success." 

Mr.  Barstone  soon  reached  his  hotel,  and  ran  up  to  pen 
a  line  to  his  aunt  before  descending  to  the  three  o'clock 
dinner : 


24  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

''New  York. 
*'My  Dear  Aunt: — 

"  It's  all  right.  I've  got  Fan  a  governess — a  regular  out- 
and-outer  !  Pardon  the  force  of  that  expression,  but  it 
just  conveys  my  meaning.  She  plays  and  sings  like  St. 
Cecilia — never  heard  St.  Cecilia,  but  heard  of  her — her 
name  is  Miss  Magdalen  Wayne,  eighteen  years  old,  and 
pretty  as  a  picture.  Tell  Fanny  we  will  be  down  Friday 
evening,  and  let  her  be  on  her  best  behavior.  Is  Phil  with 
you  yet  ?  Best  regards  if  he  is,  and  until  Friday,  my 
dear  aunt,  adieu.     Affectionately,  George." 

Addressing  this  to  "  Miss  Lydia  Barstone,  Golden 
Willows,  Millford,  Conn.,"  Mr.  Barstone,  with  a  heavy 
weight  off  his  manly  mind,  gave  it  to  a  waiter  to  post,  and 
went  downstairs  to  dinner. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE   MARK  ON   MAURICE   LANGLEY'S   ARM. 

Toiling  slowly  in  the  warm  afternoon  sunshine,  np  the 
village  street,  shut  in  from  the  world  by  those  green  New 
Hampshire  hills,  went  George  Barstone's governess.  There 
were  few  people  abroad,  for  the  train  had  dashed  in  just 
at  tea  time  ;  but  those  few  stopped  to  greet  heartily  the 
pretty  girl  in  black. 

"  Dear  me,  now,  if  it's  not  Magdalen  Allward  !  Have 
you  come  to  stay,  or  is  it  only  a  visit  ?  " 

"Only  a  visit,"  Magdalen  replied,  to  these  good  people. 
"I  get  lonely,  sometimes,  and  homesick,  in  that  great, 
dusty  city  yonder,  and  run  down  among  our  breezy  hills 
to  freshen  up." 

She  walked  on,  a  rested  look  coming  over  her  tired  young 
face,  after  each  of  these  greetings. 

''The  world  is  not  such  an  unfeeling  world  after  all," 
she  thought.  "  There  are  kindly  hearts  in  it— stray  roses 
among  the  thorns.  It  is  worth  enduring  the  pain  of 
going  away,  for  the  pleasure  of  coming  home." 

"  Home  !  She  paused  before  it  at  last— a  little  brown 
cottage,  with  June  creepers  running  over  it.     The  front 


THE  IMARK  ON  LANOLEVS  ARM.  f^ 

door  stood  wide  to  admit  the  pleasant  evening  coolness, 
and  siie  could  see  through  into  the  little  yellow  painted 
kitciien.  Tl)ere  sat  Uacliel  over  her  knittincr — there  lay 
pussy,  coiled  up  on  her  unit — and  there  toddled  about  a 
little  flaxen-haired,  pink-oheeked  fairy,  yery  shaky  on 
her  fat  legs.  The  golden  sunset  lit  up  the  picture  like 
amber  rain. 

''Dear  old  home!"  Magdalen  murmured.  ''Such  a 
haven  of  rest  and  peace,  after  the  turmoil  and  strife  of  the 
big,  weary  world.  Thank  God,  I  can  keep  it  for  them ! 
thank  God  for  my  youth  and  strength  that  enables  me  to 
fight  the  battle  of  life.  Such  a  happy,  happy  home  as  it 
once  was,  before  that  villain  came.  Father,  Willie,  Laura 
all  gone — all  their  unavenged  wrongs  lying  at  his  door. 
Heaven  grant  me  patience  to  persevere  until  I  lind  him, 
and  then — then  let  him  beware  !  " 

Her  face  darkened  vindictively,  and  her  little  hand 
clenched.  Oh,  to  have  him  at  her  mercy  now — to  stand 
face  to  face  with  Laura's  murderer. 

She  pusiied  open  the  low  white  gate  and  walked  in.  Old 
Rachel's  blunt  hearing  failed  to  catch  the  light  step,  but 
the  little  toddler  saw  lier  and  ran  forward  Avith  a  scream 
of  delight. 

''My  pet  !  my  pet  !"  Magdalen  cried,  catching  her  up 
and  covering  the  bright  baby  face  with  kisses.  "  How 
glad  I  am  to  see  you  again  !  " 

Rachel  started  up  and  stood  with  a  face  of  doubt  and 
delight.     The  girl  laughed  and  kissed  her,  too. 

"  Dear  old  nursey  !  Yes,  it's  I,  and  very  tired,  dusty 
and  hungry  I  am.  Is  tea  almost  ready,  Rachel,  and  have 
you  got  anything  particularly  nice  ?  " 

"  My  child  !  my  darling  !  You  don't  know  what  a  happy 
surprise  this  is  !"  old  Rachel  exclaimed.  "I  cannot  tell 
you  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  I  And  Laura,  too — look  at 
that  child's  eyes  !  " 

"  That's  because  she's  waiting  for  candy,'"  said  Magdalen. 
"  Well,  you  shall  have  some,  Laura,  llere's  cand}',  i>ea- 
nuts,  picture  books,  dolls,  ad  infinitum.  Cry  'havoc,* 
and  disembowel  the  bag  yourself." 

She  gave  her  reticule  into  the  child's  hands,  and  little 
Laura,  with  a  childish  scream  of  ecstasy,  sat  down  on  the 
floor  and  proceeded  to  entrench  herself  in  a  breastwork  of 
toys  and  sweetmeats, 


26  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

Magdalen  shook  ont  her  dusty  robes,  smoothed  the  shin- 
ing tresses  Mr.  George  Barstone  had  admired  so  much, 
and  sat  down  and  looked  at  her  old  nurse,  with  a  face  so 
brightly  beautiful,  that  it  was  a  delight  only  to  see  her. 
She  was  a  fresh  and  sanguine  girl  of  eighteen,  and  the 
happy  radiance  would  break  out,  in  spite  of  present  drudg- 
ery and  past  troubles. 

"It  is  so  nice  to  be  here,"  she  said,  fetching  a  long 
breath.  "  You  don't  know  how  homesick  I  get  sometimes, 
Rachel.  New  York  seems  like  a  great  stone  prison,  and  I 
and  the  rest  of  the  men  and  women,  all  in  the  treadmill. 
I  feel  as  though  I  should  die  if  I  did  not  make  my  escape 
occasionally,  and  see  the  blue  sky  and  the  swelling  fields, 
and  breathe  the  fresh  mountain  wind." 

*'  You  poor  child  !  And  how  long  are  you  going  to 
stay  ?  " 

*'  Only  until  to-morrow  afternoon.  I  have  left  Mrs. 
Howard's,  and  put  my  head  in  a  new  yoke  on  Friday 
morning." 

"  My  dear — left  your  place  ?  " 

"  Yes — for  a  better,  I  hope.  The  salary  is  higher,  and 
the  work,  I  take  it,  less  ;  but  I  never  expect  to  find  a 
more  indulgent  employer  than  gossippy,  good-natured  Mrs. 
Howard.  She  is  going  home  to  England,  you  see,  and  I 
can't  go  with  her  on  account  of  the  old  lady  and  the 
bairnie  here,  so  I  answered  an  advertisement  in  the  Herald, 
and  secured  this  new  place." 

"  In  New  York  ?  " 

"  No,  tlie  country — Millford,  Conn.  The  name  of  the 
family  is  Barstone,  and,  from  the  sample  I  have  seen,  I 
think  I  shall  like  them.  I  don't  go  until  Friday,  so  I 
took  time  by  the  forelock  and  ran  home  to  tell  you  the 
news.     And  now  for  supper — I  told  you  I  was  famished." 

Nurse  Rachel  bustled  about  in  a  state  of  ecstasy.  It 
was  delightful  to  see  her  nursling  at  all — it  was  more  de- 
lightful to  see  her  in  such  good  health  and  spirits. 

"  I  wish  I  had  you  always,"  Rachel  said.  "You  bring 
sunshine  wherever  you  go,  my  pretty  darling.  It  is  a  great 
deal  too  hard  on  a  delicate  young  creature  like  you,  to 
have  to  work  like  a  galley-slave  or  a  kitchen  maid,  for  a 
good-for-nothing  old  woman  like  me,  and  poor  little  Laura. 
But  I  hope  it  won't  last  forever — that  bright  face  of  yours, 
my  pet,  will  get  you  a  handsome  young  husband  one  of 


THE  MARK  ON  LANGLEY'S  ARM.  27 

these  days,  with  plenty  of  money,  and  all  your  heart  can 
wish." 

"  Plenty  of  money  and  nothing  to  do  !  "  sang  Magdalen  ; 
*' that  would  be  bliss,  liauhel  ;  but  the  handsome  young 
husband  is  very  slow  in  coming,  and  I'm  getting  dread- 
fully old — eighteen  last  birthday.  They  advertise  for 
husbands  in  New  York,  when  they  grow  quite  desperate. 
I'll  wait  six  months  longer  and 'if  lie  doesn't  come  of  hiin« 
self  by  the  end  of  that  time,  I'll  send  two  dollars  to  the 
Herald  office  and  try  my  fate  in  iirint.'' 

Rachel  shook  her  head  and  replenished  her  young  lady's 
cup. 

'*  Have  patience,  my  dear,  he'll  come,  depend  upon  it. 
I  was  twenty-eight  when  I  got  married — you've  time 
enough  yet.  Laura,  you'll  be  sick  if  you  eat  any  more 
candy,  and  it's  time  little  girls  were  in  bed." 

'*  Yes,"'  said  Magdalen,  "  little  girls  should  go  to  roost 
with  little  chickens.  Come,  Laura,  auntie  will  put  you  to 
bed  herself,  and  the  biggest  doll  shall  sleep  with  you  all 
night." 

Magdalen  bore  her  off  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  she 
came  down.  When  she  did  the  radiance  had  left  her  face 
and  her  cheeks  were  wet  with  tears. 

"  I  have  been  singing  Laura  to  sleep,"  she  said  ;  "  she 
is  sleeping  with  dolly  hugged  tight  in  her  arms,  and,  oh, 
Rachel  !  tliere  is  such  a  look  of  her  mother  in  her  face  !  " 

"  Yes,"  Rachel  said,  very  quietly,  "she  does  look  like 
her.     Not  at  all  like  him  !  " 

'*  Thank  God  she  does  not !  "  the  girl  cried  passionately. 

"  My  dear." 

*'  I  tell  you  I  should  !  I  could  not  help  it !  I  would  for- 
get she  was  Laura's  child  if  she  had  that  monster's  face, 
and  I  should  hate  her  as  I  hate  him  I '' 

'*  But,  my  dear  ! "  very  much  shocked. 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  to  me  ! '"  Magdalen  cried.  "  I  do  for- 
get sometimes,  though  never  forget  long,  and  I  abhor  my- 
self for  it  !  Two  ycnirs,  two  long  years,  and  no  nearer  the 
enil  yet !  AVhen  I  think  of  it,  Rachel,  it  sets  me  wild  I 
Two  years  and  no  nearer  finding  that  villain  than  the  day 
Laura  was  laid  in  her  grave  ! " 

"  But,  my  child,  what  can  you  do  ?  It  is  not  your 
fault." 

**  No,  heaven  knows.     I  have  sought  for  him — I  have 


28  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

inquired  for  him — I  have  looked  for  him  everywhere.  Was 
it  not  in  the  hope  of  meeting  him  that  1  went  to  New  York, 
under  the  name  of  Wayne  ?  But  all  in  vain  I  have  tried, 
until  I  am  tempted  to  give  up  in  despair." 
*'  Better  so,  dear  child.  I  wish  you  would." 
"  Never  ! "  Magdalen  cried,  her  eyes  flashing  black  in 
the  twilight.  *' Never  while  my  life  lasts!  I  will  keep 
the  vow  I  made  beside  my  dead  sister's  grave,  or  he  or  I 
shall  perish!  Give  up  ?  1  tell  you,  Rachel,  when  I  think 
of  my  father,  my  sister,  my  brother,  my  hate  and  my 
wrongs  burn  in  my  heart  and  drive  me  nearly  mad  ! " 

She  trod  np  and  down  like  a  young  lioness,  her  eyes 
blazing,  her  hands  clenched — a  fierce  young  Neme- 
sis. 

•'  But,  Magdalen,  this  is  all  very  wrong,  very  wicked, 
very  unchristian  ! " 

"  I  don't  believe  it  !  A  life  for  a  life  was  Jehovah's 
command.  It  is  justice^-and  justice  should  be  done, 
though  the  heavens  fall  !  " 

"  Ah,  Magdalen,  be  merciful — be  womanly  !  Not  a  life 
for  a  life,  but  'Vengeance  is  mine — I  will  repay.'" 

"Don't  talk  to  me — don't!"  the  girl  exclaimed,  pas- 
sionately. "  You  cannot  feel  as  I  feel  !  It  was  my  father, 
my  sister,  my  brother,  who  were  done  to  death  !  Oh,  my 
God  ! "  she  cried,  raising  her  clasped  hands,  "  hear  me  1 
Help  me  to  find  this  man  !  " 

There  was  a  pause.  The  old  woman  was  awed  by  the 
impassioned  vehemence  and  despair  she  could  not  com- 
prehend. 

"'  You  never  will,"  she  said,  at  last  ;  "you  never  will 
find  him.  He  may  be  dead,  he  may  be  at  the  other  end 
of  the  universe,  he  may  be  in  prison  for  life  ?  " 

"  He  may  !  lie  may  be  !  but  he  also  may  not  be  !  You 
and  I  are  alive — why  not  he  ?  It  is  not  that  makes  me 
fear — makes  me  despair.  It  is  that,  if  I  met  him  to-mor- 
row, I  should  not  know  him — if  I  stood  face  to  face  with 
him  this  hour,  I  should  not  recognize  Laura's  destroyer. 
He  is  young,  and  he  is  tall — that  is  everything  that  I  know 
about  him.  His  name,  his  hair,  his  whiskers,  all  were 
fjilse — you  might  hardly  know  him  yourself  if  you  met 
him  again.  I  may  have  sat  by  his  side,  heard  his  voice, 
held  his  hand,  and  left  him  nothing  the  wiser.  I  suppose 
it  is  only  in  sensational  novels  and  melodramas  that  people 


THE  MARK  ON  LANG  LEY'S  ARM.     29 

go  abont  with  convenient  strawberry  marks.     There  seems 
nothing  left  for  me  but  give  up  in  despair." 

She  sank  down  wearily,  but  looked  around  the  same 
instant  in  sur])iMse,  fur  old  Rachel  had  started  to  lier  feet, 
all  at  once,  violently  excited. 

"  The  mark  I ''  she  cried  ;  "  the  mark  !  I  never  thought 
of  it  before  !     The  mark  on  Maurice  Langley's  arm  I  " 

What  mark  ? "  questioned  Ma,^dalen,  breathlessly ; 
*'  what  mark  ?  Speak,  Rachel  !  One  by  which  I  may 
know  him  ?  " 

"One  by  which  you  may  know  him  among  a  thousand 
— a  mark  not  to  be  mistaken.  I  recollect  it  as  well,  after 
three  years,  as  if  it  had  been  three  hours." 

"Thank  heaven!"  Magdalen  fervently  exclaimed; 
"thank  heaven,  I  may  then  hud  him  yet  !  Tell  me  what 
it  is  like,  Rachel  ?  " 

"  It  was  by  mere  accident  I  saw  it,"  said  Rachel ;  "  and 
you  might  meet  ]\rauriee  Langley  a  million  times,  and 
never  have  an  opportunity  of  seeing  his  arm.  It  was  one 
dav  he  had  slightly  sprained  his  wrist,  and  I  had  unfast- 
ened his  shirt  sleeve  and  rolled  it  up  to  the  ell)ow  to  pour 
water  on  the  sprain.     That  was  how  I  saw  the  mark." 

"  And  what  was  it  like  ?" 

"  Like  nothing  I  ever  saw  before.  It  was  no  natural 
mark — it  was  tattooing,  and  covered  almost  the  whole  in- 
side part  of  tlie  arm,  between  elbow  and  wrist.  It  was  so 
curious  that  Willie,  and  Laura,  and  I  forgot  for  a  while 
all  about  the  sprain  in  examining  it.-" 

"  Well?" 

"  First,"  said  Rachel,  "  there  was  a  sort  of  wreath,  done 
in  blue  ink,  grapes  and  leaves,  quite  perfect.  Inside  the 
wreath,  done  in  red  ink,  there  was  a  heart,  with  a  dagger 
through  it,  and  drops  falling  like  drops  of  blood.  Sur- 
mounting this,  in  black  ink,  was  a  big  capital  letter  '  B.' 
And,  now  I  think  o£  it,  '  B  '  must  have  been  the  initial  of 
his  family  name,  though  he  explained  it  away  at  tlio  time. 
The  device  was  the  lileeding  Heart,  and  very  well  it  was 
done,  and  very  much  it  must  have  hurt  him  to  get  it  done. 
He  laughed  over  it,  and  said  a  sailor,  with  half  his  body 
illuminated  in  like  manner,  had  tattooed  it  when  he  was 
a  boy.  But  if  ever  you  see  an  arm  with  tiiat  device  (which 
isn't  likely),  you  may  know  the  owner  of  that  arm  is 
.  Maurice  Langley." 


30  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

"  Thank  heaven  !  "  Magdalen  repeated,  "  I  have  fonuv, 
some  distinct  clue  at  last  !  Accident  revealed  it  once  to 
you — accident  may  reveal  it  once  again  to  me." 

Rachel  shook  her  head. 

'-'  It  is  very  unlikely.  You  might  live  under  the  same 
roof  with  him  for  years  and  never  see  the  mark.  Oh,  my 
dear,  give  uj)  thinking  about  it !  Be  happy  yourself,  if 
you  can,  and  let  poor  Laura  rest  in  her  grave." 

"  No,  Rachel — no  ! "  Magdalen  said,  resolutely  ;  "  I 
will  never  give  up.  I  could  not  rest  in  my  own  grave,  if 
I  died  to-morrow,  with  my  vow  unfulfilled.  Be  happy  ? 
How  can  I  be  happy,  with  my  only  brother  in  a  felon's 
cell — my  only  sister  in  a  disgraced  grave  ?  Am  I  a  mon- 
Bter,  that  I  should  even  try  to  forget,  while  the  cold-blooded, 
matchless  villain,  who  has  wrought  the  ruin  of  all  I  love, 
goes  free  before  the  world  ?  I  tell  you  no,  Rachel !  If  I 
live  to  be  a  hundred  years  old,  I  will  never  give  up  ! 
Don't  try  to  alter  my  purpose.  Sooner  or  later,  so  sure 
as  there  is  a  just  and  avenging  God  above,  I  will  meet  that 
man,  and  punish  him  for  his  crime  ! " 

She  strode  up  and  down  the  room  like  a  tragedy  queen, 
her  face  pale,  her  eyes  flashing,  her  voice  ringing 
like  a  bell.  If  George  Barstone  could  have  seen  her  at 
that  moment,  I  doubt  if  he  would  have  known  again 
the  calm-eyed,  gentle-voiced  girl  of  Mrs.  Howard's 
parlor. 

Old  Rachel  sighed  heavily.  She  knew  it  was  all  very 
wicked  and  unwomanly,  this  wild  talk  of  revenge  ;  but  she 
knew,  too,  the  indomitable  nature  of  her  nursling.  AVhen 
she  spoke,  her  works  were  commonplace,  and  far  from  the 
subject. 

"  You  must  be  very  tired,  my  dear,  after  your  day's 
travel.     Hadn't  you  better  go  to  bed  ?" 

The  twilight  had  faded  out  in  the  pale  gray  blank,  and 
on  the  edge  of  a  turquoise  sky  glimmered  palely  the  new 
moon.  She  rose,  to  draw  the  curtain  and  light  the  lamp, 
as  she  spoke. 

^'  No,"  replied  Magdalen,  abruptly  turning  away  ;  "  I 
am  going  out." 

''  My  dear  !     At  this  hour  !    Where  ?  " 

"  To  Laura's  grave. " 

With  that  answer,  the  girl  left  the  room  and  went  up- 
stairs.    Five  minutes  later,  and  she  passed  out  the  front 


THE  MARK  ON  LANGLEY'S  ARM.  31 

door,  dressed  for  her  walk.  The  old  nurse  sighed,  and 
shook  her  head  forebodingly. 

"  I  wish  she  didn't  remember  so  well,"  she  said  to  her- 
self. "  She  will  ruin  her  whole  life  with  this  mad,  un- 
christian scheme  of  revenge  !  I  know  that  he  deserves 
punishment,  if  ever  man  deserved  it ;  but  it  is  madness 
for  her  to  think  she  will  meet  him,  and  know  him,  and 
inflict  it.     I  wish  she  would  ever  forget ! " 

Vain  wish  !  Magdalen  Allward  would  never  forget, 
never  forgive.  You  could  read  that  in  the  white  rigidity 
of  her  face,  in  the  dusky  fire  of  her  eyes,  as  she  walked 
along  in  the  silvery  moonlight,  to  her  sister's  grave.  Like 
sheeted  ghosts  in  the  solemn  light  rose  up  the  ghastly 
grave-stones  ;  but  there  was  no  superstitious  fear  in  her 
brave  nature,  and  she  walked  steadily  on,  to  the  three 
graves  under  the  firs. 

*'My  poor  Laura!  my  poor  sister  I"  she  sadly  mur- 
mured, the  slow  tears  welling  up.  "What  a  weary  time 
you  have  lain  in  your  unavenged  grave  !  I  have  tried,  oh, 
heaven  knows  how  ardently  !  to  meet  the  man  who 
wronged  you  so  cruelly,  and  tried  in  vain.  But  some  day, 
sooner  or  later,  I  Avill  cross  his  path — I  will  stand  before 
him,  his  accuser,  your  avenger  !  And  then,  Laura — and 
then  ! " 

Nearly  an  hour  after,  while  she  still  knelt  there,  heed- 
less how  the  moments  sped,  a  hand  fell  upon  her  shoulder, 
and  looking  up,  she  saw  her  faithful  nurse. 

"  Thinking  still,  my  dear  ? "  Rachel  said,  kindly. 
"  Your  poor  brain  will  get  dazed,  Magdaleii.  What  is  it 
all  about  ?  "  and  she  viewed  with  sad,  somber  eyes. 

"  I  am  thinking  of  the  mark  on  Maurice  Langley^s  arm," 
she  said.  "Rachel,  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  I  have  a 
presentiment — a  conviction — that  I  will  meet  that  man 
before  long  ! " 


MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 


CHAPTER  V. 

CfOLDEN   WILLOWS. 

Punctual  to  the  moment,  on  Friday  morning  Mr. 
George  Barstone  made  Jiis  appearance,  in  a  cab,  at  the 
residence  of  Mrs.  Howard,  and  by  that  lady  (drowned  in 
tears)  Miss  Wayne  and  her  belongings  were  given  into 
custody. 

If  t*he  truth  must  be  told,  and  the  weakness  of  the  most 
amiable  of  mankind  expressed,  Mr.  Barstone  had  been  in 
a  fever  for  the  hour  to  come.  The  great  gray  eyes  and 
shining  tresses  of  Mrs.  Howard's  governess  had  haunted 
him  strangely  and  pertinaciously  during  the  intervening 
time.  If  he  sat  placidly  smoking  his  big  brown  meer- 
schaum, the  exquisite  face  shone  on  him  through  the 
misty  vapor  like  a  star  through  a  fog  ;  if  he  went  to  the 
theater  or  sat  down  to  dinner  or  sauntered  along  Broad- 
way, the  pale  face  and  fair  brown  hair  rose  up  before  him, 
and  blotted,  for  the  time  being,  everything  else  out.  But 
then  men  naturally  take  an  interest  in  their  aunts'  gover- 
nesses. If  she  had  been  the  amiable  owner  of  red  hair  and 
a  pug  nose,  no  doubt  it  would  have  been  just  the  same. 

The  June  weather  was  at  its  brightest  and  best  when 
Mr.  Barstone  and  his  fair  companion  startetl  on  their 
*'  Down-East  "  journey,  and  the  jocund  sunshine  was  re- 
flected in  the  gentlemair's  beaming  face.  But  Miss  Wayne, 
distrait,  not  to  say  gloomy,  sat  with  her  veil  down,  gazing 
out  at  the  sunlit  landscape  flitting  by.  Mr.  Barstone  no- 
ticed this  presently  and  gave  up  trying  to  be  entertaining. 

"  She  has  been  to  see  her  friends  in  the  country,"  he 
thought,  ''and,  perhaps,  has  found  a  screw  loose  some- 
where. She  seems  out  of  spirits,  poor  little  thing,  so  I 
won't  bore  her  talking." 

So  Mr.  Barstone  pulled  out  the  morning  paper,  and  got 
into  the  politics,  and  forgot  the  flight  of  time  and  the 
young  lady  beside  him.  But  she  was  too  pretty  to  be  for- 
gotten long,  and  when  they  reached  Hartford  and  stopped 
for  refreshments,  he  insisted  on  her  leaving  the  car  and 
having  something  to  eat. 

"Traveling's    hungry   business,'^    he    remarked,  pro- 


GOLDEN  WILLOWS.  33 

foundly  ;  "  it  always  makes  me  ravenous,  and  you've  had 
no  dinner." 

But  Miss  Wayne  was  not  ravenous,  and  only  wanted  a 
cup  of  tea,  and  then  walked  up  and  down  the  platform  by 
herself  until  the  bell  rang.  She  had  thrown  back  her  veil, 
and  her  face  looked  sad  and  downcast  as  she  resumed  her 
seat. 

"  She's  lonely,  perhaps,  leaving  Mrs.  Howard,"  reflected 
Mr.  Barstone,  looking  at  her  with  pitying  interest ;  '*  and 
she  is  going  among  strangers,  who  may  ill  use  her,  for  all 
she  knows.  I  wish  she  was  my  sister  ;  it's  bad  enough  for 
a  man — a  great,  rough  fellow  like  me — to  knock  about  the 
sharp  corners  of  this  crooked  world  ;  but  for  a  pretty, 
delicate  creature  like  that !  I  do  think,"  mused  the  young 
man  rather  irrelevantly,  *'  she  has  the  most  beautiful  face 
I  ever  saw  ! " 

In  the  amber  haze  of  the  early  afternoon  the  passengers 
for  Millford  got  out  at  tlie  junction.  There  was  no  con- 
veyance waiting  for  j\Ir.  Barstone  and  his  companion,  but 
he  explained  away  that  little  circumstance. 

'"I  know  how  cramping  it  is  to  the  energies  to  sit  a 
whole  day  in  the  cars,  and  I  thought  you  would  like  to 
stretch  your — I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Ijarstone,  chocking  him- 
self, in  considerable  embarrassment,  "as  the  walk  from 
the  junction  to  the  town  is  only  half  a  mile,  you  might 
prefer  it." 

"  And  I  do,"  said  Miss  Wayne,  accepting  his  proffered 
arm.     ''  How  very  smoky  your  Millford  is  I  " 

**  So  many  manufactories,  yon  sec,"  replied  the  ^lill- 
fordian.  ''Quite  a  thriving  and  bustling  place,  I  assure 
you,  though  rather  grimy  on  the  face  of  it.  It  is  a  lively 
sight  on  Saturday  and  Sunday  afternoons,  when  the 
factory  ladies  turn  out  and  parade  the  streets.  They're 
in  the  caterpillar  state  all  week — dirty  faces  and  no  crino- 
line— but  on  those  two  days  they  wash  up  and  come  out 
gaudy  butterflies,  in  glancing  silks  and  artificial  flowers. 
They  have  hard  work,  and  one  pities  them  sometimes ; 
but,  on  the  whole,  they  look  rather  jolly,  and  as  if  they 
enjoyed  it." 

Miss  Wayne  found  very  little  to  interest  her  in  the  noisy, 
sooty,  manufacturing  town  of  ]\lillford.  Beyond  the  sooty 
streets  the  blue,  bright  river  flowed,  sparkling  in  the 
glorious  sunshine,  as  if  sown  with  diamonds. 


34  MACxDALEN'S  VOW. 

Mr.  Barstone  turned  out  of  the  black  streets,  presently, 
into  a  niore  quiet  and  aristocratic  thoroughfare,  where 
trees  and  shutters  were  dazzlingly  green,  and  houses  and 
curtains  vividly  white.  Before  one  of  these  dwellings  a 
horse  and  buggy  stood  waiting,  the  horse  asleep  in  the 
lazy  sunshine,  and  tlie  boy  who  held  the  reins  very  little 
better.  This  equipage  and  the  spotless  wooden  mansion 
before  which  it  stood  Mr.  Barstone  pointed  out  with  con- 
siderable interest. 

*'  That's  the  trap  from  Golden  Willows,  with  Sam,  the 
pony,  and  Bill,  the  driver,  fast  asleep.  Keminds  one  of 
Dickens'  Fat  Boy,  doesn't  it  ?  This  is  my  office — behold 
that  door-plate.  '  G.  Barstone,  Barrister-at-law.'  A  man 
might  do  better  in  Hartford  or  New  York  ;  but  what 
with  factory  hands  breaking  each  other's  heads,  and  manu- 
facturers cheating  one  another  and  their  employees,  and 
breach  of  promise  cases,  and  such  odds  and  ends,  busi- 
ness, even  here,  is  delightfully  brisk. '^ 

Mr.  Barstone  assisted  Miss  Wayne  into  the  buggy,  took 
a  seat  beside  her  and  drove  off.  Bill,  the  drowsy,  woke 
up,  to  take  a  prolonged  stare  at  the  young  lady,  and  then 
relapsed  into  a  back  seat  and  his  former  somnambulistic 
state. 

'•  Has  Mr.  Philip  gone  yet,  Bill  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Bar- 
stone. 

"  Went  this  morning,  sir,"  Bill  responded  ;  "  7:50  train  ; 
Miss  Fanny,  she  got  up,  she  did,  and  drove  him  to  the 
station  herself.     The  missis  ain't  been  very  well." 

'"  Ah  !"  said  Mr.  Barstone,  gravely,  "  I'm  sorry  to  hear 
that.  My  aunt.  Miss  Wayne,  has  been  in  delicate  health 
for  many  years,  and  unable  to  leave  her  room." 

Miss  Wayne  murmured  her  sympatliy.  1'hey  were 
bowling  along  a  pleasant  country  road  by  this  time,  with 
waving  trees  and  swelling  fields  on  either  hand  and  blue 
glimpses  of  the  sparkling  river  beyond. 

"Pretty  road,  is  it  not?"  quoth  the  lawyer.  ''The 
Lake  Road,  they  call  it.  You  can't  see  the  lake  yet ;  it 
is  about  two  miles  in  length,  and  our  house  is  at  the  other 
extremity.  Golden  Willows  is  just  five  miles  from  Mill- 
ford — near  enough  to  be  convenient,  distant  enough  to 
escape  the  noise  and  dirt.  There's  the  lake  now — seven 
feet  below  us." 

Miss  Wayne  looked  over  the  roadside  embankment  and 


GOLDEX  WILLOWS.  35 

saw  the  lake  lying  between  green  slopes,  like  a  diamond 
set  in  emui-alds.  Very  placid,  very  beautiful,  very  lonely 
— no  living  thing  near.  The  sunlight  lighted  the  center  ; 
the  edges  were  so  overhung  with  pollard  willows  and  syca- 
mores as  to  be  in  blackest  gloom.  Its  long  white  shore 
dazzled  the  eyes  like  sunshine  on  snow. 

'*A  pretty  place,"  the  governess  said;  *'a  beautiful 
place,  but,  oh  !  so  lonely.     Is  it  always  like  this  ?" 

"By  no  means,"  briskly  responded  the  young  man. 
**You  should  see  it  Sunday  evenings,  after  tea,  when  the 
young  factory  ladies  and  tlieir  beaux  come  here,  to  do  the 
sentimental  in  the  summer  twilight.  And  you  should  see 
it  in  winter,  when  it's  nicely  frosted  over,  like  a  huge 
wedding  cake,  and  the  thermometer  is  tremendously  below 
zero,  and  half  the  population  of  Millford  are  strapped  up 
in  skates  !  By  the  way,  I  hope  you're  fond  of  skating, 
Miss  Wayne  ;  if  you're  not,  we'll  try  and  make  you  fond 
of  it." 

Miss  AVayne  laughed  good-naturedly,  as  they  rattled 
lightly  along,  and  Mr.  Barstone  proceeded  : 

"  We'll  come  in  sight  of  our  house  directly.  Do  you 
like  old  houses.  Miss  Wayne  ?  because  Golden  Willows  is 
old,  as  age  goes  in  New  England.  It  was  built  before  the 
Revolution  by  a  Mayflower  ancestor,  and  the  rooms  are 
low  and  a  trifle  dark,  with  wainscotings  and  diamond- 
paned  casements.  The  front  door  is  ponderous  enough  to 
stand  a  siege,  and  the  bedrooms  are  grand,  gloomy  and 
peculiar.  It's  not  haunted,  more's  the  pity  ;  but  one 
wouldn't  be  surprised  if,  waking  in  the  dead  of  night,  he 
saw  an  old  lady  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  in  high- 
heeled  shoes  and  satin  petticoat  and  powdered  hair  in  a 
P3ramid  on  the  top  of  her  head.  It  looks  like  that  sort 
of  thing,  you  know." 

Miss  Wayne  laughed  once  more.  It  seemed  impossible 
to  entertain  gloomy  thoughts  long  in  the  genial  company 
of  Mr.  Barstone.  Being  all  sunshine  himself,  it  was  only 
natural  that  a  trifle  of  the  superabundant  light  and  hap- 
piness of  his  nature  should  illumine  less  fortunate  mortals 
near  him. 

They  were  at  the  house,  driving  through  a  tall,  clank- 
ing gateway,  up  a  straight  avenue,  where  great  maples 
made  greenish  gloom  at  noonday.  To  the  right  there 
was  an  ornamental  fish-pond,  with  trailing  yellow  willows 


86  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

all  aronnd  and  a  willow  walk  led,  away  to  the  left,  down 
direct  to  the  lake.  The  house  itself  was  long  and  low  and 
quaint  built,  of  gray  stone,  with  a  massive  door  and  peaked 
porch,  all  overrun  with  sweet  briar  and  creeping  pine  roses. 

' '  Such  a  pretty  place  ! "  Miss  Wayne  exclaimed,  her 
eyes  lighting.  "Such  a  quiet,  pretty  place!  Golden 
Willows  is  worthy  of  its  romantic  name.'' 

"  1  thought  you  would  like  it,"  said  Mr.  Barstone. 
"  There  isn't  a  tree  or  a  stone  or  a  flower  about  it  that 
isn't  worth  its  weight  in  gold  to  me.  Ah,  Fanny,  my 
dear,  there  you  are,  peeping  from  behind  the  curtain  and 
thinking  we  don't  see  you  !  She's  gone.  Miss  Wayne,  but 
she  was  reconnoitering  a  second  ago  !  " 

Miss  Wayne  smiled  and  followed  her  leader  into  the 
house.  She  had  seen  the  lace  curtain  raised  and  a  face 
peeping  out,  but  in  a  twinkling  it  was  withdrawn,  and 
there  was  the  sound  of  a  piano  and  a  girlish  voice  singing. 

Mr.  Barstone  led  the  way  into  a  long,  dusky  hall,  rich 
in  pictures  and  busts,  and  thence  into  a  pretty  summer 
parlor — carpet  and  walls  and  chairs  all  white  and  blue. 
Canaries  sang,  flowers  bloomed,  bouquets,  in  fragile  proce- 
lain  vases,  were  everywhere,  and  they  caught  the  last  verse 
of  the  young  lady's  song  as  they  opened  the  door. 

'  Oh,  when  the  bays  are  all  my  own, 
I  know  a  heart  will  care  ; 
Oh,  when  the  gold  is  wooed  and  won 
I  know  a  brow  will  wear — 

Aileen, 
I  know  a  brow  will  wear — " 

"Very  pretty  indeed,"  remarked  Mr.  Barstone,  re- 
morselessly cutting  her  short ;  "  but  no  more  at  present  ! 
Please  turn  round  and  welcome  the  master  of  the  house." 

The  young  lady  whirled  about  on  her  revolving  seat, 
got  up  with  a  faint  exclamation  and  held  out  one  pudgy 
little  paw. 

A  short,  round-about  damsel  was  Miss  Fanny  Winters, 
with  a  prevailing  pinkness  of  skin,  flushed  cheeks,  profuse 
brown  hair,  tinged  with  a  strong  suspicion  of  red,  brown- 
like eyes  and  a  prevailing  expression  of  intense  good  nature. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you've  come  back,  George,"  said  this  young 
person,  kissing  him.  "  You've  no  idea  what  a  long,  stu- 
pid day  it  has  been.     Old  Doctor  What-yon-may-  call-iiim. 


GOLDEN  WILLOWS.  37 

in  New  York,  telegraphed  for  Phil  last  evening,  and,  of 
course,  he  had  to  start  tlie  first  thing  to-diiy.  And  Aunt 
Lydia's  been  ill,  and  I've  had  uotliing  new  to  read  and  no 
permission  to  open  the  piano,  and  I've  been  wishing  for 
you — oh,  dreadfully  !  " 

"  As  a  last  resource  against  blue  devils — much  obliged 
to  you.  Miss  Winters.  ^liss  Wayne,  allow  nie  to  intro- 
duce your  future  pupil,  Fanny  Winters  !  " 

Miss  Winters  fln-ted  out  her  muslin  skirts,  starched  to 
a  painful  degree  of  stiffness,  and  made  Miss  Wayne  an 
elaborately  graceful  bow. 

*'  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,  Miss  Wayne,  and  I  hope  we 
shall  be  the  best  of  friends,  for  you've  no  idea  how  hor- 
ribly dull  and  stupid  it  is  here — has  she,  George  ?  What 
with  Aunt  Lydia  sick  and  George  in  ]\Iillford  and  Phil  in 
New  York,  I  should  have  gone  stark,  staring  mad  of 
loneliness  long  ago,  only  for  the  circulating  library.  And 
even  that  is  not  to  be  depended  on  at  all  times,  for  the 
most  interesting  pages  are  generally  torn  out,  and  you 
know  how  provoking  that  is.  I  hope  you  like  novels, 
Miss  Wayne,  because,  if  you  do,  I'm  sure  we  will  get  along 
together  splendidly." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Barstone,  *'if  yon  don't  talk  Miss 
Wayne  into  her  grave  in  a  month.  Your  future  pupil, 
you  perceive,  emulates  your  friend,  Mrs.  Howard.  Non- 
sense flows  from  her  lips  in  a  perennial  stream.  I  give 
you  fair  warning,  I\Iiss  Wayne,  cut  her  short,  or  she'll 
drive  you  to  the  verge  of  idiocy." 

"  Having  survived  Mrs.  Howard  a  year,  I  think  I  am 
proof  against  anything  Miss  Winters  can  do  in  that  line," 
said  Magdalen  laughing.  **'Iara  certain  we  will  get  on 
together  extremely  well." 

''  And  you  won't  be  dreadful  about  history  and  geology 
and  rhetoric  and  things,"  pleaded  Miss  Winters,  piteously, 
"  because  I  can  never  remember  old  red  sandstone  and 
formations  and  dates  and  tlie  Gauls  and  the  ancient 
Eomans  and  all  such  things  .Miss  Grimwig  used  to  goon 
so  about.  It  wasn't  a  bit  of  use  ;  it  only  made  my  head 
ache,  and  went  in  one  ear  and  out  at  the  other.  And  for 
music  and  French — I  like  polkas  when  they're  easy,  and 
nice  little  fables  to  translate,  and  if  I  get  the  spelling  and 
the  genders  wrong,  you  won't  be  cross,  will  you  ?  And 
now  let's  go  upstairs  and  take  oif  your  things/ 


38  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

"  And  if  you  can  make  it  convenient,  Fan,  to  order 
supper  an  hour  earlier  than  usual/'  said  the  young  lawyer, 
*'  we  will  be  infinitely  obliged  to  yon,  for  Miss  Wayne 
has  had  nothing  since  breakfast,  and  my  appetite  is  always 
in  working  condition." 

Miss  Winters  promised,  and  led  her  new  governess  up- 
stairs, chattering  all  the  way  like  a  magpie.  The  upper 
hall  was  long,  dimly  lighted,  hung  with  pictures  and 
flanked  by  many  doors. 

'' These  are  the  chambers,"  said  Miss  Winters.  "This 
is  Aunt  Lydia's.  You  can't  see  her  to-night,  you  know, 
because  she  feels  poorly  ;  but  you  will  to-morrow.  This 
is  George's  room,  this  is  Phil's,  and  on  the  other  side  is 
yours  and  mine.  Now  take  your  things  off  ;  I  must  run 
down  and  see  about  tea,  but  I'll  be  back  directly." 

The  governess'  chamber  was  a  very  neat  and  pretty  one, 
overlooking  the  orchard  and  lake.  The  wide,  green  pros- 
pect, the  steel-blue,  low-lying  lake,  the  swelling  expanse 
of  green  earth  and  azure  sky,  were  all  very  pleasant  after 
her  cramped-up  city  experience. 

"How  happy  I  might  be  here,"  she  thought;  ''how 
happy  I  would  be  if  I  were  like  other  girls  of  my  age — if 
1  had  no  dark  secret  to  cloud  and  trouble  my  life.  I  like 
this  cheery  Miss  Winters,  I  like  that  agreeable  Mr.  Bar- 
stone.  If  I  could  only  blot  out  the  dreary  past  and  be 
simply  and  honestly  happy,  as  it  is  in  my  nature  to  be. 
But  I  dare  not — I  will  not  !  Laura  in  her  lonely  grave, 
Willie  in  his  gloomy  prison,  must  not  be  forgotten.  I 
must  never  give  up  my  search  for  the  double,  the  treble 
murderer.     1  must  keep  my  vow  ! " 


CHAPTER  VL 

SUMMER   DAYS. 

Miss  Winters  came  tripping  up-stairs  again  before  the 
governess  had  removed  her  bonnet,  her  pink  complexion 
a  thought  deepened  by  the  exercise. 

''  1  have  ordered  peaches  and  cream  and  chocolate  for 
tea,"  she  breathlessly  announced,  "  and  I  hope  you  will 
like  sally-lunns,  Miss  Wayne — our  Bridget  makes  them 
lovely.     What  pretty  hair  you've  got,  and  such  a  lot  of 


SUMMER  DAYS.  39 

it  !  Mine's  tliin  ;  it  doesn't  look  thin,  yon  know,  but  it 
is,  and  I  do  most  of  it  up  in  front — corkscrew  curls, 
George  calls  'em^and  it  don't  take  but  little  to  make 
one's  waterfall.      Don't  you  like  the  new  style  ?" 

Miss  Wayne's  abundant,  glittering  locks  were  worn  in  a 
shining  coronet,  coiled  around  her  stately  head. 

"  I  tind  it  more  convenient  to  wear  mine  like  this,  Miss 
Winters." 

"  And  ever  so  much  more  becoming.  But  please  don't 
call  nie  Miss  Winters  ;  nobody  ever  does  so  except  Aunt 
Lydia  when  she  scolds  me.  Call  me  Fanny — and,  oh, 
please  !  may  I  call  you  Magdalen  ?  It  is  such  a  sweet, 
pretty  name  ! " 

"  Call  me  Magdalen,  by  all  means  ;  I  greatly  prefer  it 
to  Miss  Wayne.  1  believe  I  shall  not  be  able  to  change 
my  dress — my  trunk  has  not  arrived." 

"  It  does  not  matter  in  the  least,"  said  Fanny  ;  "  there 
will  be  nobody  to  see  you,  you  know.  George  doesn't 
know  cotton  from  brocade  ;  men  are  as  stupid  as  cows, 
mostly,  about  girls'  fixings.  Who  are  you  in  mourning 
for,  Magdalen  ?" 

A  dark  cloud  swept  over  the  fair  face  of  Miss  Winters' 
governess. 

"  For  my  father  and  sister." 

"  Oh,  you've  lost  your  father,  then — so  have  I.  Is 
your  mother  alive  ?" 

"  My  mother  died  when  I  was  a  child." 

''  And  so  did  mine,"  cried  Fanny,  looking  charmed  at 
the  coincidence,  "  and  whatever  would  have  become  of 
me  without  Aunt  Lydia,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  I've 
been  here  four  years,  and  I  was  a  dreadful  little  igno- 
ramus of  twelve,  and  I've  had  at  least  twenty  governesses 
since." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?     Twenty  !" 

"  Well,  you  see  some  of  them  were  nasty  old  pumps, 
and  some  of  them  made  love  to  George,  and  some  didn't 
know  much  more  than  I  did  myself,  and  some — oh,  we've 
had  a  precious  time  with  them,  lean  tell  you.  But  I  feel 
sure  you  and  I  will  get  along  together  lovely.  You  don't 
look  as  if  you  could  be  cross  and  fussy  and  hateful." 

"  I  wonder  your  aunt  did  not  send  you  to  school." 

"  No  ;  she  likes  to  have  me  at  home.  I'm  company  for 
her  when  she's  well,  and  she's  very  fond  of  me  and  very 


40  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

good  to  me,  although  she  scolds  considerable,  and  says 
I'm  silly  and  frivolous.  But  then,  how  is  one  to  help 
being  silly  and  frivolous  when  one's  happy  ?  though  good- 
ness knows  I'm  not  happy  half  the  time,  mewed  up  here. 
It's  all  very  well  when  Piul's  down,"  said  Fanny,  turning 
two  or  three  shades  pinker,  suddenly;  ''but  that's  not 
often  nowadays." 

''Who  is  Phil?" 

■'Aunt  Lydia's  other  nephew,"  responded  Fanny; 
*'  he's  a  doctor,  you  know,  and  he  practises  in  New  York. 
He  was  here  for  a  fortnight  until  yesterday  when  the  old 
doctor,  his  partner,  telegraphed  for  his  return.  They 
say  he's  like  George,  but  I  can't  see  it,  and  I  like  him  a 
great  deal  better  ;  he's  more  polite  and  gallant,  and  sings 
and  dances  better.  George  has  quite  a  little  fortune  of 
his  own,  but  Phil  has  nothing,  and  they're  orphans  like 
me,  and  Aunt  Lydia  brought  them  up.  George  is  her 
favorite,  and  he  and  Phil  are  like  twin  brothers.  And 
now,  if  you're  ready,  Magdalen,  we'll  go  down,  for  we've 
been  chatting  till  it's  six  o'clock,  and  I  ordered  supper  at 
six." 

Magdalen  smiled.  The  chatting  had  been  a  very  one- 
sided affair,  and  Miss  Winters  had  poured  forth  these 
little  family  details  with  a  volubility  it  would  have  been 
cruel  to  check. 

Tea  was  waiting,  and  so  was  Mr.  Barstone,  rather  im- 
patiently. 

"  I  thought  you  two  young  ladies  had  retired  for  the 
night,"  he  said.  "  Miss  Wayne,  has  Fanny  been  giving 
you  the  autobiography  of  our  family  and  every  other 
family  in  Millford  during  the  last  hour  ?  " 

"  Now,  George,"  cried  Miss  Winters,  reproachfully, 
"  how  can  you  !  I  never  said  a  word  about  the  families 
of  Millford— did  I,  Magdalen  ?  And  I  don't  think  you 
need  be  always  throwing  my  talk  in  my  face,  because  you 
generally  have  a  good  deal  to  say  yourself.  Magdalen," 
whisking  suddenly  about,  "  let's  take  a  walk  by  the  lake 
after  tea.  It's  such  a  dear,  romantic,  dismal  spot  that  I 
love  to  go  there.  It  makes  me  always  think  of  lonely 
murders  and  suicides  and  kind  of  chills  one's  blood,  you 
know." 

*'  An  excellent  reason  for  taking  Miss  Wajrne  there," 
aaid  George  Barstone,  gravely.     "  It  is  suggestive  of  chiUs 


SUMMER  DAYS.  41 

and  fever,  I  think  myself.  And  as  for  murders  and  sui- 
cides, it  has  been  tlie  scene  of  more  than  one  tragedy." 

Supper  over,  the  trio  left  the  house  for  their  saunter  to 
the  lake.  The  red  glory  of  the  June  sunset  blazed  over 
land  and  lake  and  kindled  both  into  luminous  splendor. 

"Golden  Willows — poetical  and  appropriate,"  said 
Magdalen.     "I  never  saw  a  prettier  place." 

*' But  horribly  dull,"  said  Fanny.  "I  thought  it 
sweetly  pretty  the  first  time  I  saw  it,  top  ;  but  after  being 
cooped  up  four  years,  its  beauties  begin  to  jiall  a  little. 
Perhaps  Mariana  thought  the  Moated  Grange  a  pretty 
place  at  first,  though  she  got  sick  enough  of  it  after,  poor 
thing  !  But  my  seventeenth  birthday  conies  in  Septem- 
ber, and  Aunt  Lydia  shall  have  no  peace  until  she  con- 
sents to  let  me  have  a  party.  She  doesn't  like  parties, 
but  she  must  consent  if  I  keep  on  tormenting  her  long 
enough.     I'll  begin  to-morrow." 

They  were  walking  down  the  green  avenue  that  led  to 
the  lake,  while  Fanny  chattered.  A  delightful  avenue, 
shaded  and  cool,  with  birds  twittering  in  the  branches, 
and  the  red  lances  of  the  sunset  shooting  athwart  the 
greenish  gloom. 

"  A  pleasant  promenade,  is  it  not.  Miss  Wayne  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Barstone,  "  secluded  and  sentimental  and  that  kind 
of  thing.  This  is  where  Fanny  takes  my  cousin  Pliil, 
when  she  wants  to  quote  Tennyson  and  Owen  Meredith  to 
him,  and  get  him  to  make  love  to  her.  Did  yon  wring  a 
proposal  out  of  him,  Fan,  before  you  let  him  go  ?" 

"Now,  George!"  in  shrill  reproach,  and  reddening 
violently  ;  "  I'm  ashamed  of  you.  What  will  Miss 
Wayne  think  ?  If  Phil  and  I  do  walk  here  sometimes,  it's 
because  he  likes  to  smoke  under  the  trees,  and  I  don't 
mind  cigar  smoke  a  bit,  and  I  go  with  him  because  one 
must  have  some  one  to  talk  to.  I'm  sure  I  wish  you  and 
he  could  change  places.  lie's  worth  a  dozen  of  you,  and 
so  you'll  say,  Magdalen,  when  you  see  him." 

"  Think  better  of  Miss  Magdalen's  judgment,  Fanny ; 
I  don't  believe  she'll  say  anything  of  the  sort." 

They  sauntered  along  the  edge  of  the  lake,  lying  dark 
and  somber  and  deserted,  until  Miss  Winters  complaining 
of  fatigiae,  they  returned.  The  early  rising  moon  was 
lifting  its  silvery  disc  over  the  hilltops,  and  the  white, 
bright  evening  star,  swung  in  the  azure  beside  it. 


42  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

'*  It's  so  nice,"  sighed  Miss  Winters,  with  a  languishing 
glance  at  the  moon.  "I  do  not  like  moonlight,  of  all 
thing's.  One  could  almost  fancy  it  Venice,  if  these  hills 
were  palaces  and  the  trees  churches  and  the  lake  a  canal 
and  the  shadows  gondolas.  It  must  be  lovely  to  live  in 
Venice — among  doges,  bridges  of  sighs  and  guitars  and 
gondolas  and  things.  Can  you  sing  *  Now  Rest  Thee 
Here,  My  Gondolier,'  Magdalen  ?  I  dote  on  Moore's 
Melodies,  though  George  says  they're  mawkish  and  love- 
sick. But  then,  George  has  no  more  soul  than  a  kan- 
garoo !  I  dare  say,"  cried  Fanny,  with  a  reproachful 
glance  at  the  gentleman,  "  he  would  like  to  smoke  this 
minute." 

"  I  certainly  should,"  responded  Mr.  Barstone,  promptly, 
*'  and,  with  Miss  Wayne's  permission,  I  will.  May  I  ? 
A  thousand  thanks  ! " 

It  was  nearly  nine  when  they  returned  to  the  house, 
and  Magdalen  retired  at  once — retired  with  the  fag  end 
of  a  tune  on  her  lips  and  a  happy  glow  at  her  heart,  to 
sleep  soundly  and  sweetly  as  a  tired  child. 

Siie  arose  late  next  morning,  and  ere  she  had  finished 
dressing  Fanny's  voice  was  heard  at  the  door  : 

"Are  you  up  yet,  Magdalen  ?  Because,,  if  you  are,  I 
want  to  come  in." 

"  Come  in,  then." 

Miss  Winters  entered,  voluminous  in  clean  starched 
muslin  and  fluttering  with  pink  ribbons,  her  face  a-shine 
with  good  humor,  cold  water  and  honey  soap. 

"How  did  you  sleep?"  inquired  the  young  girl; 
"  well,  I  should  think,  by  your  face  and  the  hour  you 
get  up.  It's  half-past  eight,  and  our  breakfast  hour,  and 
George  is  waiting  ;  so  please  hurry — there's  a  dear  !  " 

They  descended  to  breakfast,  to  find  Mr.  Barstone 
whistling  to  the  canaries  while  he  waited.  Immediately 
after  the  meal  he  departed,  on  foot,  for  his  office  in  Mill- 
ford,  and  Fanny  bore  oft'  her  governess  to  see  "Aunt 
Lydia." 

Miss  Barstone — for  Aunt  Lydia  was  Miss  Barstone  at 
five-and-forty — was  seated  over  her  breakfast  when  they 
entered  the  room.  A  large  apartment,  more  like  a  library 
tlian  a  sleeping  room,  pictures  and  books  and  busts  and 
flowers  and  birds  everywhere.  Miss  Barstone — a  little 
body,  with  a  pale,  pinched  face,  keen  eyes  and  a  resolute 


SUMMER  DAYS.  48 

month — held  out  her  hand  and  greeted  Magdalen 
kindly. 

"You  are  Miss  Wayne?  How  do  you  do,  my  dear? 
You  are  very  welcome  to  Golden  Willows.  Take  this  arm- 
chair, Miss  Wayne." 

Magdalen  seated  herself.  Tlie  searching  look  of  the 
bright,  keen  eyes  fluttered  her  a  little,  but  the  frank  smile 
was  very  like  her  nephew's. 

*'  I  couldn't  see  you  yesterday,  my  dear — I  was  poorly, 
very  poorly,  indeed.  I'm  a  confirmed  invalid,  you  know. 
1  never  quit  my  chamber,  and  a  little  thing  upsets  me. 
My  nephew  Philip's  sudden  departure  was  a  shock — I  had 
hoped  he  would  stay  for  the  summer.  My  dear,  what  a 
very  pretty  girl  you  are  ! " 

Magdalen  blushed  and  laughed. 

**  George  and  Fanny  both  told  me,  but  I  really  didn't  ex- 
pect — excuse  me,  my  dear,  it  sounds  like  flattery  ;  but  I 
don't  mean  it  so.  You  are  a  great  deal  too  young  and  too 
handsome  to  be  a  governess.     How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"Why,  Aunt  Lydia,"  exclaimed  Fanny,  "  you  know 
George  told  us  in  his  letter.     She's  eighteen." 

*'  Too  young  !  too  young  !  And  you've  been  a  governess 
over  a  year  ?  Ah  !  poor  thing  !  It's  a  hard  life,  and  you 
don't  look  fitted  for  a  hard  life.  I  hope  you'll  be  happy 
here." 

"  Dear  Madam  I  "  Magdalen  said,  the  tears  in  her  eyes, 
"I  know  I  shall." 

*'  And  you  are  an  orphan.  Miss  Wayne  .''" 

"  Yes,  kiss  Barstone,"  very  sadly. 

"  Any  relatives,  my  dear  ?  " 

'*  I  have  a  brother,  poor  fellow  !  "  Magdalen  said,  hur- 
riedly ;  "  but  I  hardly  dare  hope  ever  to  see  him  again, 
and  I  have  a  baby  nieoe,  with  an  old  nurse,  away  in  New 
Hampshire,  mv  native  State.     That  is  all." 

"  Poor  cliild  !  But  you  and  Fanny  will  sympathize  with 
each  other,  for  she  is  an  orphan,  too.  Not  a  very  forlorn 
looking  one,  though,  is  she  .'*  You  must  be  very  strict  and 
severe  with  her.  Miss  Wayne,  for  she's  a  shockingly  idle, 
heedless  girl.  You  know  you  arc,  Fanny  !  "  said  Miss  Bar- 
stone,  with  a  backward  frown  at  the  culprit  hanging  over 
her  chair. 

"  Yes,  I  know," said  Funny  ;  "but  it's  nice  to  be  idle, 
and  you  don't  like  me  any  the  worse  for  it.     Now,  if  you're 


44  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

done  with  Magdalen,  1*11  take  her  out  for  a  drive.  It  isn't 
worth  .while  commencing  to  study  in  the  fag  end  of  the 
week." 

She  bore  her  off  into  her  own  maiden  bower,  all  one  lit- 
ter of  albums,  novels  and  half-finished  fancy  work,  while 
she  dressed  for  the  drive. 

On  their  way  down  she  flung  open  another  door,  dis- 
closing a  large,  elegantly  furnished  room,  handsomer  than 
any  Magdalen  had  yet  seen. 

"This  is  the  spare  room,"  said  Fanny;  "never  to  be 
nsed  until  Phil  or  George  get  married.  It's  sacred  ground, 
this — dedicated  to  the  future  Mrs.  B." 

"  It  is  very  pretty,"  said  Magdalen,  carelessly.  "When 
is  it  likely  to  be  occupied  ?  " 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  replied  Miss  Winters,  shaking 
her  curls,  "  George  will  live  and  die  a  crusty,  musty, 
cranky,  cross  old  bachelor,  and  as  for  Phil — well,  I  can't 
say.     Half  the  girls  in  Millford  are  dying  for  him." 

"  Fanny  Winters  among  the  number  ?" 

"  Nonsense  ! "  said  Fanny,  very  pink  of  face  indeed. 
"  There's  Bill  waiting  with  the  horse  and  buggy.  Come 
on — I'll  show  all  that's  worth  showing  in  the  neighbor- 
hood." 

It  was  a  pleasant  day,  the  first  of  many  pleasant  days. 
And  Magdalen  Allward's  new  life  began  under  a  summer 
sky  without  a  cloud — to  be  all  the  blacker  when  the  clouds 
came. 


CHAPTEE  VII. 

MR.  BAKSTONE  FALLS  IN"  LOVE. 

June  passed — July — August  came.  The  days  went  like 
placid  dreams  ;  Magdalen  "  sat  in  sunshine,  calm  and 
sweet,"  and  was  happy. 

They  were  very  good  to  her  at  Golden  Willows  ;  Miss 
Barstone  was  the  most  indulgent  of  old  maids  and  em- 
ployers. Fanny  was  the  laziest  and  best-tempered  of  pupils, 
and  Mr.  George  Barstone — oh  !  to  his  mind  there  was 
nothing  else  under  the  starry  sky  half  so  lovely  as  Fanny's 
governess  !  Golden  AVillov/s  had  always  been  a  pleasant 
place  to  the  young  lawyer,  but  it  had  never  quite  been 
Paradise  before. 


MR.  BARSTONE  FALLS  IN  LOVE.  45 

He  had  never  felt,  little  thrills  of  delight  shooting 
through  his  system — a  kind  of  ecstutic  ague  when  his 
thoughts  wandered  homeward  from  the  office  before  she 
came,  lie  di(hi't  quite  understand  his  own  symptoms — he 
didn't  take  the  trouble  to  analyze  them — he  accepted  the 
facts — that  the  sun  shone  brighter  and  the  skies  were 
bluer  and  the  State  of  Connecticut  a  great  Garden  of 
Eden,  and  never  inquired  too  closely  what  had  wrought  the 
transformation. 

But  Miss  Wayne  had  other  slaves  at  her  chariot  wheels, 
and  bade  fair  to  become  tlie  belle  of  Mlllford.  Young  men 
saw  her  Sunday  afternoons  sitting  in  the  high-backed  pew 
between  (Jeorge  and  Fanny,  her  starry  eyes  uplifted  to  the 
preacher's  face  and  the  August  sunshine  making  anaureolo 
around  her  golden  head,  and  gazed  in  speechless  admiration. 

There  was  nothing  half  so  handsome  in  all  the  place  as 
Miss  Wayne,  and  half  a  dozen  rich  mill  owners  were  ready 
to  fall  at  her  feet,  at  one  encouraging  word,  before  the  end 
of  the  third  month.  But  Miss'Wayne  never  spoke  that 
one  word.  She  was  gracious  to  all,  in  a  queenly  sort  of  way 
— a  way  that  decidedly  silenced  the  mill  owners. 

There  was  one  gentleman — not  a  rich  gentleman,  either 
— who  seemed  rather  a  favorite  with  tlie  stately  Magdalen, 
however.  He  had  not  wealth — he  was  a  dry-goods  clerk, 
only — but  he  had  what,  with  woman,  is  very  often  better 
— beauty. 

He  was  gloriously  handsome,  this  Mr.  Frank  Hamilton  ; 
for  all  the  world  like  Count  Lara,  or  the  Corsair,  or  Childe 
Harold— Miss  Winters  said— tall  and  dark,  with  pathetic 
black  eves  and  raveii  hair. 

He  had  fallen  hopelessly  and  absurdly  in  love— this  young 
dry-goods  clerk — with  the  fair-haired  governess.  He 
haunted  Golden  AVillows  like  an  uneasy  ghost,  and  gave 
Mr.  George  Barstone  the  first  real  inkling  into  the  state  of 
his  own  heart. 

''The  be-scented,  doll-faced,  dandified  jackanapes!/* 
growled  Mr.  Barstone,  with  fiashing  eyes,"  with  his  six 
hundred  dollars  a  year  and  his  curly  pate  !  I  dare  say  he 
thinks  he  has  only  to  open  his  lanky  arms  for  Miss  Wayne 
to  plump  into  them  !  The  girls  of  Millford  have  spoiled  tliat 
fellow — always  sickeningly  conceited  about  his  namby- 
pamby  beauty.  As  if  a  man  had  anything  to  do  with 
beauty,  or  as  if  a  sensible  girl  like  Magdalen  Wayne  would 


46  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

make  an  idiot  of  herself  for  a  pair  of  dark  eyes  and  a 

straight  nose  ! " 

Mr  Barstone,  with  his  hands  deep  in  his  pantaloons 
pockets,  tore  up  and  down  his  sanctum  like  a  caged  lion. 
He  had  just  seen  Miss  Wayne  go  by  the  window,  with 
the  handsome  dry-goods  clea-k,  talking  as  animatedly  as 
thouo-h  the  scheme  of  the  universe  held  but  their  two  selves. 

'*'  How  lovely  she  looked,  and  how  happy  she  seemed  !" 
groaned  George,  in  despair  ;  "and,  after  all,  though  she 
may  snub  mill  owners,  with  sandy  hair  and  pug  noses,  who 
knows  what  effect  this  noodle's  Grecian  protile  and  melan- 
choly, dreamy  eyes — as  Fanny  calls  'em — may  have  up- 
on her.  Hang  his  melancholy,  dreamy  eyes  !  I  wish  he 
was  ten  fathoms  deep  in  the  Connecticut !  Girls  are  as 
silly  as  geese,  and,  though  Miss  Wayne  seems  sensible, 
I've  no  doubt  she's  as  bad  as  the  worst  where  Grecian 
noses  and  black  eyes  are  concerned.  I  dare  say  she'll 
fling  herself  away  on  this  dry  goods  Apollo  and  take 
a  turn  at  love  in  a  cottage,  like  the  silliest  driveler 
among  ihem  !  Love  in  a  cottage  !  two  back  rooms  in  a 
tenenient  house,  bread  without  butter  and  weak  tea  three 
times  a  day,  patched  clothes  and  half  a  dozen  dirty-faced 
children  !     Bah  !  " 

With  which  expression  of  disgust,  Mr.  Barstone  flung 
himself  into  his  ofiice  chair  and  scowled  vindictively  at  the 
opposite  wall. 

"  And  if  she  does,  what  difference  does  it  make  to  me  ? 
he  thought;  "what  business  is  it  of  mine  if  Miss  Wayne 
chooses   to   marry   the    King   of   the   Cannibal   Islands  ? 
George  Barstone,  you  are  a  greater  fool  than  your  friends 
take  you  to  be,  and  you're  in  love  again." 

Mr.  Barstone  emphasized  the  "  again,"  as  he  very  well 
mi'^ht  ;  for  being  in  love  had  been  his  normal  state  ever 
since  he  had  lejft  off  roundabouts. 

In  New  York  he  fell  in  love  with  ballet  girls  and  ac- 
tresses and  all  manner  of  objectionable  young  women,  and 
in  Millford  he  had  succumbed  to  the  charms  of  at  least  a 
dozen,  and  paid  marked  attention  to  Miss  Ella  Goldham, 
the  greatest  heiress  and  the  best-looking  girl  in  town. 
His  suit  had  been  smiled  upon— the  course  of  true  love  ran 
as  smooth  as  a  milldam— so  smoothly,  indeed,  that  George 
Barstone  slipped  out  of  love  as  easily  as  he  had  slipped  in. 

Perhaps  Miss  Goldham  had  met  him,  like  Desdemona, 


MR.  BARSTONE  FALLS  IN  LOVE.  47 

more  than  half  way  :  perhaps  the  grapes  were  too  ripe,  and 
hung  too  near.  Mr.  Barstone  hadn't  proposed,  and  had 
not  been  in  love  since.  Sense  had  come  to  him,  he 
thought,  with  his  seven-and-twcntieth  year.  He  liad  cut 
his  wisdom  teeth  at  last,  and  lo  I  here  he  was  going  mad 
because  liis  aunt's  governess,  wliom  lie  liad  not  known  over 
two  months,  had  walked  past  his  windows  with  a  good- 
looking  young  dry-goods  clerk. 

Mr.  Barstone  spent  a  miserable  and  unbusiness-like  day, 
smoking  endless  cigars  and  ruminating  drearily  on  Mr. 
Frank  Hamilton's  prospects  of  succeds. 

He  had  been  so  happy  during  the  ])ast  two  mouths,  sli- 
ding unconsciously  into  the  abyss  ;  and  the  bright  face  and 
golden  hair  and  glorious  eyes  of  Magdalen  Wayne  had  so 
lighted  up  the  world  that  the  darkness  was  ten-fold  blacker 
now.  His  love  was  no  child's  play  this  time.  If  Miss 
Wayne  became  Mrs.  Frank  Hamilton,  or  Mrs.  Anybody 
else,  George  Barstone  gloomily  made  up  his  mind  tliatlife 
held  no  other  alternative  for  him  tlian  a  double  dose  of 
laudanum,  or  a  jump  off  the  bank  into  Willow  Lake, 
where  it  was  deepest. 

The  young  lawyer  walked  moodily  home  that  evening, 
through  the  amber  mist  of  the  sunset,  witli  the  darkest 
shadow  on  his  face  that  cheery  face  ever  wore.  What  if 
Frank  Hamilton  had  proposed  that  very  day  and  been  ac- 
cepted ? 

*'  He  hasn't  known  her  half  as  long  as  I  have,"  reflected 
George,  "  ai\d  I  daren't  do  it :  but  Hamilton  is  bold 
enough  for  anything  !  If  slie  has  said  yes,  let  her  go  ! 
The  woman  who  could  marry  that  well-dressed  idiot  isn't 
worth  regretting.  I  don't  want  a  wife,  anyhow.  A  wife  ! 
humbug  !  A  wife's  a  nuisance  !  I  shouldn't  know  what 
to  do  with  one  if  I  had  one." 

Mr.  Barstone,  reaching  home,  saw  the  garden  gate 
swing  open,  and  Fanny,  with  several  yards  of  rose-colored 
ribbon  streaming  behind  her,  ilew  down  the  path. 

"I've  such  news  for  you,  George!"  cried  the  young 
lady,  all  flushed  and  palpitating:  ''we're  going  to  have 
the  party  !  Yes,  a  party  on  my  birthday,  and  that's  the 
very  next  Thursday  that  ever  is — and  there's  to  be  music, 
dancing  and  a  supper,  and  I'm  to  ask  whoever  I  please. 
And,  oh,  George  !  I've  been  dying  for  you  to  come  home 
to  write  the  invitations.     I'm  to  have  a  new  dress,  and 


48  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

Aunt  Lydia's  set  of  pearls  ;  and,  oh,  George  !  won't  it  be 
lovely,?" 

Miss  Winters  paused,  her  face  as  radiant  as  the  sunset 
sky.     Mr.  Barstone  listened,  stoically. 

"  Is  supper  ready  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes,  ready  this  half  hour — and  Magdalen's  in  there 
embroidering  me  a  handkerchief.  I  wanted  her  to  help 
me  write  the  invitations,  but  she  said  you  were  the  most 
suitable  person.  Oh  ! "  cried  Fanny,  clasping  her  hands 
around  his  arm,  and  looking  up  at  him  with  big,  shining 
eyes.  "I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  myself,  I'm  so 
happy  !" 

Mr.  Barstone  remained  rigidly  grim.  He  went  to 
supper  and  found  Magdalen  seated  at  one  of  the  windows, 
bending  over  her  work.  She  looked  up  with  that  bril- 
liant smile  the  young  lawyer  thought  the  most  beautiful 
thing  on  earth. 

''I've  been  telling  George  all  about  the  party,  Magdalen," 
exclaimed  Fanny,  as  they  sat  down  to  supper,  "and  he's 
going  to  write  out  the  invitations  directly  after  tea.  Isn't 
it  too  bad,  George,  Phil  can't  come  down  ?  What  will 
you  wear,  Magdaleii  ?     Black  ?  " 

"Black,  of  course — I  have  nothing  else."  . 

"  And  you  know  it  becomes  you,  you  sly  Magdalen. 
Blondes  always  look  their  best  in  black,  don't  you  think 
so,  George  ?  " 

"I  think,"  replied  George  Barstone,  with  grave  sin- 
cerity, "  Miss  Wayne  looks  her  best  in  anything." 

"  Delightful  !  "  cried  Fanny,  while  Magdalen  blushed 
vividly.  "  I  didn't  think  it  was  in  you,  George.  I  should 
like  pink  silk  myself ;  but  I'm  afraid  pink  is  too  pro- 
nounced for  my  complexion  and  hair.  It's  red — I  know 
it  is — and  I  hate  red  hair  !  All  the  heroines  of  novels 
have  golden  hair,  like  Magdalen,  or  tar  black,  like  Ella 
Goldman  ;  and  the  fair  ones  used  to  be  good,  and  the  dark 
ones  all  bad  ;  but  they've  reversed  that  rule  since  '  Lady 
Audley.'" 

Mr.  Barstone,  still  under  a  cloud,  consented  to  make 
himself  useful  after  tea  and  write  out  Fanny's  invitations. 
After  all,  poor,  imbecile  Frank  Hamilton  was  more  to  be 
pitied  than  blamed,  for  falling  madly  in  love  with  this 
starry-eyed  divinity  who  glorified  Golden  Willows  by  her 
presence.     It  was  not  in  human  nature  to  do  otherwise. 


MR.  BA118T0NE  FALLS  IN  LOVE.  40 

and  he  tried  to  think  of  him  with  pitying  disdain,  and 
write  down  the  list  of  names  Funny  dictated.  It  was  a 
lengthy  list,  and  wound  up  with  the  obnoxious  Apollo 
himself. 

"And  Frank  Hamilton,  Magdalen — handsome  Frank — 
we  must  have  him,  of  course." 

"  I  object  to  young  Hamilton  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Barstone, 
suddenly  turning  crusty.  '*  I  don't  like  the  fellow  !  A 
conceited,  empty-headed  noodle — and  you  have  masculine 
noodles  enough  without  him  !     Go  on  !  " 

''Not  until  you  put  down  Frank,"  said  Fanny,  re- 
solutely ;  "  you  may  just  as  well,  George,  for  I  shall  have 
him  here  if  I  have  to  go  to  the  store  and  invite  him  my- 
self !  And  as  to  his  being  a  conceited  noodle,  that's  all 
your  hateful  jealousy,  George  Barstone,  because  he's  a 
great  deal  better  looking  than  you  !  Write  down 
Frank  ! " 

'*'  I'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort  \"  returned  Mr.  Barstone, 
violently  red  ;  ''  and  if  he  comes  here,  I  shall  not  I  I  tell 
you,  I  don't  like  him,  and  I  repeat  it,  he  is  a  noodle ! 
good  for  nothing  but  measuring  out  yards  of  tape  and 
admiring  his  pretty  face  in  the  glass  !  Write  your  invita- 
tions yourself.  Miss  Winters,  if  you  insist  upon  having 
people  I  despise  !  " 

With  which  unprecedented  burst  of  ill  temper,  Mr. 
Barstone  stalked  majestically  out  of  the  room,  slamming 
the  door  behind  him.  Magdalen  stared  in  boundless 
astonishment,  and  Fanny's  eyes  were  like  two  midnight 
moons. 

"  Good  gracious  me  !  "  ejaculated  Miss  Winters,  with  a 
dash  ;  "  who'd  ever  thought  it  !  It's  the  first  time  I  ever 
saw  George  turn  grumpy  in  my  life.  But  I  know  how  it 
is,"  with  a  shower  of  mysterious  nods;  "  1  know  all  about 
it." 

"All  about  what?"  inquired  Magdalen,  very  much 
mystified.  "I  thought  Mr.  Barstone  and  Mr.  Hamilton 
were  very  good  friends." 

'•  And  so  they  always  have  been,  and  so  they  always 
would  be,  only  for  you,  you  sly,  mischief-making  Mag- 
dalen ! " 

"  Only  for  me  !  "  cried   Magdalen,  aghast. 

"  Good  gracious,  yes  I"  exclaimed  Fanny,  testily  ;  "of 
course,   it's  you — any  one  can  see  it  with  half  an  eye. 


50  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

Frank's  in  love  with  yon — and  George  is  jealous  as  a 

Turk  !  " 

"  Fauny,,  Fanny  !     What  are  you  saying  ?  " 

"The  truth,  Miss  Wayne.  Don't  you  suppose  I  have 
eyes  in  my  head  ;  and  that's  why  poor  Frank  is  a  conceited 
noodle,  and  can't  come  to  the  party.  He  can't,  I  suppose, 
if  George  keeps  grumpy — and  it's  a  thousand  pities,  for 
he's  tlie  nicest  fellow  I  know — except  Phil — and  so  hand- 
some that  it's  a  pleasure  to  look  at  him." 

Miss  Wayne  bent  suddenly  over  her  work,  and  her 
cheeks  were  the  color  of  Fanny's  streamers,  and  her  heart 
all  in  a  flutter  of  tremulous  bliss.     Why,  she  best  knew. 

''So  we  must  leave  poor,  dear  Frank  out,"  pursued 
Fanny,  regretfully,  "  and  disappoint  heaps  of  girls.  And 
then  there's  the  old  folks — how  are  we  to  amuse  them  ?  " 

"  Cards,"  suggested  Magdalen. 

"  Cards  ?"  repeated  Fanny.  "  It  would  be  as  much  as 
my  life's  worth  to  mention  the  word  to  Aunt  Lydia— to 
George,  either,  for  that  matter.  And  thereby  hangs  a 
tale.  It's  all  George's  doing — a  burned  child  dreads  the 
fire." 

Magdalen  dropped  her  work  and  looked  at  her. 

"  You  won't  speak  of  it  again,  I  know,"  pursued  Fanny, 
delighted  to  have  a  secret  to  tell,  "  because  Aunt  Lydia 
wouldn't  like  it ;  but  George  wasn't  always  the  model  he 
is  now.  When  he  was  in  New  York,  two  or  three  years 
ago,  he  got  into  dreadful  trouble  of  some  kind.  I  don't 
know  what  it  was  ;  but  gambling  had  something  to  do 
with  it,  and  Aunt  Lydia  was  in  terrible  distress,  and  had 
ever  so  much  money  to  pay.  George  came  home,  awfully 
ashamed  of  himself,  and  penitent,  and  ever  since  cards 
have  been  utterly  abolished." 

Magdalen  listened  to  this  little  narrative  with  an  interest 
Fanny  never  dreamed  of.  Three  years  ago  George  Bar- 
stone  had  been  in  New  York,  and  he  had  been  addicted 
to  gambling.  What  if  he  had  known  Maurice  Langley  ! 
What  if  he  were  Maurice  Langley  himself  ! 

Her  face  flushed  hotly  at  the  thought ;  she  had  brooded 
on  the  possibility  of  finding  this  man  in  strange  places, 
and  by  strange  ways,  so  long  that  no  idea,  however  pre- 
posterous, could  seem  preposterous  to  her.  "  Tall  and 
handsome."  George  Barstone  was  both.  But  the  next 
instant  she  discarded  the  wild  idea.     His  frank,  handsome 


MR.  BARSTONE  PALLS  IN  LOVE.  51 

face  arose  before  her — genial  and  lionest — the  face  of  a 
man  who  might,  thoughtlessly,  fall  into  error,  never  the 
face  of  a  deliberate  villain.  Slie  could  see  him  from  the 
window,  walking  up  and  down  in  the  silveiy  summer 
gloaming,  smoking  his  cigar  under  the  trees  and  looking 
up  at  tiie  red,  rising  moon. 

*'Xo,  no,  no  !  "  thonglit  Magdalen.  "  George  Barstone 
never  could  be  a  cold-bloodod  traitor  and  betrayer.  I  atn 
a  wretch  to  harbor  sucli  a  thouglit  for  a  moment,  but  he 
may  have  known  Maurice  Langlev.  If  I  only  dared  ask 
him  ! " 

Fanny's  tongue  was  running  on  all  tlie  while,  and  Mag- 
dalen had  to  dismiss  the  subject,  and  attend  to  her. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  invite  poor  Frank,  you  cantankerous 
old  George,"  Funny  said,  to  her  cousin,  when  he  came  in 

fresently,  "  so  you  needn't  wear  tliat  sulky  face  any  longer, 
'm  sure  you  and  he  used  to  be  good  enough  friends, 
but  you're  quite  an  altered  person  lately.  He's  a  great 
deal  more  entertaining  than  you  are,  and  I  don't  half  ex- 
pect to  enjoy  myself  without  him,  and  no  more  does 
Magdalen  ;  but  for  all  tliat  he's  not  coming,  so  please 
stop  scowling,  ]\Ir.  Barstone,  and  try  and  make  yourself 
agreeable  if  you  can." 

Mr.  Barstone's  reply  to  this  breathless  reproach  was  a 
scowl  of  even  deeper  malignity,  to  the  infinite  amusement 
of  wicked  Fanny. 

"I've  been  asking  Magdalen,"  pursued  that  young  lady, 
bent  on  tormenting  him,  "how  we  are  going  to  amuse  the 
elders,  and  she  suggested  cards.  Would  you  mind  fetch- 
ing a  pack  home  from  Millford  to-morrow,  George  ?" 

Magdalen  looked  up  quickly  and  earnestly,  and  saw  a 
remarkable  change  pass  over  the  young  man's  face  at  the 
simple  words,  and  his  blue  eyes  darkened  and  grew  stern 
as  they  fixed  themselves  on  Fanny's  face. 

"I  sliould  mind  it.  Miss  Winters,"  he  said,  "and  yon 
know  that  perfectly  well.  Please  be  a  little  more  careful 
in  your  requests,  or  there  will  be  neither  card  playing  nor 
party  that  niglit." 

With  which  short,  sharp  and  decisive  speech,  Mr. 
Barstone  strode  from  tlie  room,  and  appeared  no  more 
that  evening. 

The  eventful  day  came,  and  Fanny,  in  a  fever  of  ex- 
citement, robed  herself  in  spotless  white,  like  tiie  heroine 


58  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

of  a  novel,  with  Aunt  Lydia's  pearls  gleaming  in  milky 
luster  on  her  neck,  and  her  pink  complexion  deeper  pink 
than  ever.  Calm  and  queenly  beside  her,  in  black  silk 
and  lace,  and  jet  ornaments,  Miss  Wayne  stood,  plain  and 
simple  in  .dress,  and  uplifted  and  beautiful  as  a  young 
queen. 

Mr.  Frank  Hamilton,  the  handsome,  was  not  there,  and 
George  Barstone  should  have  been  at  peace  ;  but,  alas  !  lie 
was  not — for  if  the  best-looking  man  in  Millford  had  been 
excluded  from  that  festive  throng  on  Miss  Wayne's 
account,  the  richest  man  in  Millford  was  there,  and 
obnoxiously  attentive. 

Mr.  Sam  Goldham,  short  of  stature,  plain  of  face,  dull 
of  brain,  but  with  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  at  his  com- 
mand, was  her  most  devoted.  He  hung  over  the  piano 
when  she  played  and  sang;  he  was  her  partner  when  she 
danced  ;  he  persistently  sat  beside  her  when  she  rested. 
George  Barstone,  hovering  aloof,  like  your  madly  jealous 
lovers,  set  his  teeth  in  a  paroxysm  of  fury,  and  longed  to 
take  Mr.  Sam  Goldham  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  and  kick 
him  incontinently  out  of  doors.  One  or  two  attempts  he 
made  to  join  the  golden-haired  divinity  ;  but,  monopolized 
by  the  wealtliy  manufacturer,  the  attempts  were  futile. 
The  millionaire  had  her,  and  meant  to  keep  her.  Desper- 
ate cases  require  desperate  remedies.  Mr.  Barstone  took 
I  desperate  and  sudden  resolve,  there  and  then. 

"  I'll  propose  to  her  to-morrow,"  thought  the  young 
.\uvyer,  grinding  his  teeth  and  glaring  at  the  rich  man, 
^'  if  that  inconceivable  ass,  Sam  Goldham,  doesn't  do  itto- 
^right  ! " 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

MR.    BAESTONE   PROPOSES. 

**  M  VN  proposes,  but  God  disposes,"  saith  the  proverb. 
Georg'"  Barstone  laid  his  head  on  his  pillow,  at  three 
o'clock  next  morning,  with  the  invincible  resolution  of 
asking  'Ihe  bright-haired  governess  to  be  his  wife  before 
the  day  ended,  and  fell  asleep  under  the  soothing  influence 
of  that  determination.  But  destiny  had  decreed  other- 
wisi«.     Awaking  late  in  the  forenoon  from  a  dream  of  his 


MR.  BARSTONE  PROPOSES.  53 

amber-tressed  idol,  lie  beheld  Kill,  the  boy,  standing  by 
his  bedside,  like  an  ugly  little  guardian  angel. 

"  A  letter,  Mr.  George — jest  come,  sir  ;  man  brought  it 
from  the  telegraph  office  in  town,  and  you're  to  sign  your 
name." 

George  took  it,  and  read  its  brief  contents  with  a  very 
blank  face.  It  was  from  New  York,  from  the  elderly 
physician  with  whom  his  cousin,  Philip,  was  connected. 

Come  here,  if  you  can.  P.'s  met  with  an  accident- 
serious,  but  not  fatal. 

RiCHAllD   MaSTERSON. 

George  Barstone  was  very  earnestly  attached  to  his 
cousin.  They  had  grown  up  together  as  boys  ;  they  had 
run  their  college  course  side  by  side,  and,  of  late  years, 
separation  had  rather  strengthened  tlian  weakened  their 
fraternal  attachment.  In  the  first  shock  and  consterna- 
tion of  the  news,  the  lawyer,  the  lover,  absolutely  forgot 
his  lady  love. 

"  An  accident,"  George  thought,  staring  blankly  at  the 
telegram  ;  ''  serious,  but  not  fatal !  Good  heavens  !  what 
can  have  happened  to  him  ?  I'll  run  up  to  New  York 
this  very  day  !" 

He  sprang  out  of  bed  at  once,  and  rapidly  began  to 
dress. 

"  I  must  tell  Aunt  Lydia,  of  course.  She  isn't  up  yet, 
and  it  seems  a  pity  to  awake  her,  after  last  night;  but  it 
can't  be  helped.  Poor  Phil  !  he  must  have  requested 
Masterson  to  telegrapli  for  me — the  old  bear  never  would 
do  it  himself.  lie  always  did  want  me,  whenever  he  got 
into  a  scrape,  I  remember." 

George,  having  completed  his  toilet,  sought  his  aunt's 
room.  Slie  was  awake,  though  not  up,  when  he  rapped, 
and  answered  at  once  : 

*'  Is  it  you,  George  ?     Come  right  in.     What  is  it  ?  " 

George  explained. 

Miss  Barstone  was  excessively  shocked  and  startled.  She 
wasas  fond  of  her  two  nephews  as  a  widowed  mother 
might  be  of  her  two  sons. 

"  Poor  Pliil  !  poor,  dear  boy  !  Oh,  George,  if  it  should 
be  dangerous  ! " 

*'  The  telegram  says  not,  aunt." 


54  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

"  You  must  go  to  Xew  York  at  once,  George.  My  poor 
Phil  !  ■  I  shall  have  uo  peace  until  1  hear  from  you.  Are 
you  in  time  for  the  noon  train  ?" 

George  looked  at  his  watch. 

"It  willpass  through  Millford  in  an  hour  and  a  half-^ 
time  enough,  and  to  spare.  I'll  have  a  mouthful  of  break- 
fast, and  be  off  immediately." 

But  Mr.  Barstone,  saying  this,  lingered  strangely.  An 
after  thought  seemed  to  strike  him,  and  he  stood,  looping 
and  unlooping  nervously  his  watch-chain,  and  staring 
"with  a  disturbed  face  at  the  opposite  wall. 

Miss  Barstone  watched  him  intently. 

"  Well,  George  ?  "  she  said. 

George  grew  very  red,  turned  abruptly,  and  began  pac^ 
ing  up  and  down. 

"AVell,  George?"  this  time  with  a  faint,  conscious 
smile. 

"Aunt,"  broke  out  Mr.  Barstone,  "there's  something 
1  should  like  to  speak  to  you  about  before  I  leave  home." 

"  So  I  perceive.     What  is  it  ?" 

George,  redder  than  ever,  rumpled  up  his  fair  hair,  and 
stared  very  hard  at  vacancy. 

"'  Well,  George  ?     I'm  waiting." 

George  stopped  his  walk  as  abruptly  as  he  had  com- 
menced it,  and  turned  full  upon  his  relative. 

"Aunt,"  he  burst  out,  impetuously,  "I've  fallen  in 
love!" 

"Indeed!"  very  placidly.  "Nothing  new  in  that, 
George.     Who  is  the  lady  ?  " 

"Aunt  Lydia,"  said  Mr.  Barstone,  firmly,  "this  is 
something  entirely  different  from  the  past.  I'm  aware 
how  often  and  how  egregiously  I've  made  a  donkey  of  my- 
self, but  this  time  I'm  in  earnest.  I  love  her  with  my 
whole  heart,  and,  if  she  refuses  me,  I  don't  care  whether 
I  live  or  die  !  " 

"  My  poor,  dear  boy  !     And  who  is  she  ?  " 

"  She  is  Miss  Wayne  ! " 

"  Fanny's  governess  ?  Ah,  George,  it  is  not  the  first 
time  you  have  fallen  in  love  with  Fanny's  governess  !" 

"  It  shall  be  the  last  time,  aunt.  The  happiness  of  my 
whole  life  is  involved  in  tills.  I  meant  to  ask  her  this 
very  day.     Aunt  Lydia,  you  cannot  object  to  Magdalen  ?  " 

"  I  esteem  Miss  Wayne  very  highly,  George.     She  is  an 


MR.  BARSTONE  PROPOSES.  65 

excellent  governess — a  very  handsome  and  liigli-bred 
young  lady — but,  witli  all  that,  I  should  like  to  know 
somuthuig  more  of  tlie  antecedents  of  my  dear  boy's  future 
wife  than  I  do  of  hers." 

Mr.  Barstone's  anxious  face  turned  radiant. 

*'  Then  you  don't  object,  aunt  ?  " 

*'  To  Miss  Magdalen  AVayne  personally,  no.  I  dare  say 
I  should  prefer  for  you  a  wealthier  bride.  I  am  only 
mortal  in  that  respect.  But,  after  all,  a  fortune  is  not 
the  cliief  consideration.  You  liavo  not  taken  me  in  the 
least  by  surprise,  George.  I  have  foreseen  all  this  for  some 
time.  If  Magdalen  loves  you,  and  if  there  is  no  other 
drawback  than  her  poverty,  I  shall  raise  no  objection. 
I  like  lier  very  much — very  much,  indeed  \" 

"Then,"  cried  George,  with  a  beaming  face,  "  I'll  ask 
her  the  moment  I  return  from  New  York,  and,  after  that, 

f^ou  know,  you  can  question  and  cross-question  lier  about 
ler  antecedents,  and  find  out  who  her  grandfather  and 
great-grandfather  were,  and  come  at  the  history  of  tho 
wliole  Wayne  race.  She'll  come  forth  triumphanlly  from 
tlie  whole  ordeal,  never  fear.  And,  auntie,  just  own  up — 
isn't  she  the  loveliest  creature  the  srin  shines  on  ?" 

"  Magdalen  is  very,  very  pretty  !  " 

"  And  so  gentle  and  sweet-tempered,  and  stately  and 
thoroughbred  !  Aunt,"  said  Mr.  Barstone,  in  a  sudden 
gush  of  despondency,  as  all  Miss  Wayne's  manifold  per- 
fections burst  upon  him,  "  I  don't  believe  she'll  have 
me  ! " 

"  She  might  easily  have  worse,  George.  I  like  to  see 
young  men  modest  ;  but  I  wouldn't  despair,  if  I  were  you. 
Meanwhile,  'time  is  on  the  wing ' — the  train  will  soon 
pass,  and  hero  you  are." 

"  By  Jove  !  yes,"  cried  George,  bolting  precipitately 
out  of  the  room.  "  Good-by,  aunt  !  Here  I  linger,  and 
poor  Phil  at  death's  door  for  all  I  know.  What  a  selfish 
brute  I  am,  to  be  sui-e  !  " 

The  young  lawyer  crammed  the  few  necessaries  requisite 
into  his  traveling-bag,  swallowed  a  hasty  cup  of  coffee,  and 
set  off. 

As  he  took  his  seat  in  the  buggy,  the  fair  face  of  Mag- 
dalen Wayne  shone  on  him  from  an  upper  window.  His 
lieart  gave  a  great  plunge  as  he  waved  his  hand  to  the 
bright  apparition. 


56  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

**  Good-by,  Miss  Wayne  I'm  off  to  New  York.  £3kw 
care  of  yourself  till  I  come  back  !  " 

Miss  Wayne  smiled  and  nodded  ;  then  the  pony  quickly 
trotted  George  Barstone  out  of  sight. 

The  young  lawyer  reached  New  York  in  due  time,  and 
found  his  cousin  by  no  means  so  alarmingly  ill  as  he  had 
fancied.  He  was  lying  on  a  bed  in  a  darkened  chamber, 
looking  uncommonly  gaunt  and  hollow-eyed,  it  is  true, 
but  quite  able  to  devour  basins  of  broth  and  beef-tea,  and 
talk  to  his  cousin  by  the  hour. 

"Why,  Phil,  old  fellow!"  George  cried,  "you're  not 
half  so  bad  as  I  thought  you  were  !  " 

Mr.  Philip  Barstone  flounced  over  the  bedclothes  with 
a  dismal  groan.  He  was  one  of  those  big,  strong  men  who 
succumb,  like  the  fragile  blossoms  they  are,  to  the  first 
touch  of  illness ;  and,  when  he  lay  down  and  pulled  the 
sheets  over  him,  he  wanted  all  his  friends  and  relatives  to 
stand  howling  around  his  bed  in  a  dreary  chorus  of  sym- 
pathy. 

"  It's  worse  than  yon  think  for,  George,"  said  the 
invalid,  forlornly  ;  "  and  I've  been  cooped  up  in  this  hole, 
with  old  Masterson  feeling  my  pulse,  and  a  nurse,  ugly 
enough  to  set  up  in  a  corn  field,  pouring  filthy  slop  down 
my  throat,  until  I've  had  serious  thoughts  of  getting  up 
and  blowing  my  brains  out  to  escape  them.  That's  why  I 
made  Masterson  telegraph  for  you,  old  boy.  I  should 
have  gone  melancholy  mad  if  some  one  hadn't  come.  I 
tell  you,  George,  it's  rough  on  us  bachelors,  when  we 
come  to  be  laid  up  and  left  to  the  mercies  of  hired  nurses. 
If  the  nurses  were  only  young  and  pretty,  you  know,  a 
fellow  might  stand  it ;  but  they  seem  to  be  specially 
selected  on  account  of  their  age  and  ugliness.  If  I  ever 
get  out  of  this  confounded  mess,  I'll  turn  over  a  new  leaf, 
burn  the  novels  of  Paul  de  Kock,  resign  brandy  and  soda, 
fast  horses  and  expensive  cigars,  become  virtuous  and 
happy,  and  get  married.  How  are  they  all  at  Golden 
Willows  ?  " 

"As  usual,"  George  answered,  rather  absently,  his 
thoughts  with  that  wonderful  creature  with  the  starry 
eyes  and  tinseled  hair  who  had  come  to  glorify  his  hum- 
drum life. 

''Does  Aunt  Lydia  get  about  much  ?"  pursued  Phil  j 
**but,  of  course,  she  doesn't," 


MR.  BARSTONE  PROPOSES.  57 

"No  ;  she  lias  not  been  out  of  her  room  since  yonr  de- 
parture. Jiy  the  way,  Fanny's  got  a  new  governess,  you 
know  ! " 

Despite  the  studiously  careless  "  by-the-way,"  the  latter 
clause  sounded  somewhat  inapposite, 

"lias  she?  1  didn't  know!  Has  she  fallen  in  love 
with  you,  or  have  you  fallen  in  love  with  her — wliich  ? 
Fanny's  governesses  have  always  been  divided  into  those 
two  classes,  since  she  had  a  governess — loved  and  loving. 
Ah  I  I  see, "said  Philip,  pointing  one  lean  forefinger  at  poor 
George's  blushes,  "  you've  been  and  made  an  idiot  of 
yourself  for  thefiftietii  time  !  It's  astonishing  Fan  hasn't 
written  mo  a  full,  true  and  particular  account  long  before 
this!     AVhoisshe?" 

"  Her  name  is  Wayne  —Miss  Magdalen  Wayne — if  you 
mean  Fanny's  governess." 

"  AVhom  else  should  I  mean  ?  Fanny's  governess,  aiid 
the  idol  of  your  young  affections.  IIow  fondly  tlie  fellow 
dwells  on  her  name  !  Miss — Magdalen — Wayne  !  It's  a 
pretty  name,  too  !     Is  she  ?" 

*' Beautiful  ! "  exclaimed  George,  rapturously,  "the 
loveliest  girl  you  ever  saw  !  " 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  Miss  Fletcher  had  sandy  hair  and 
freckles,  and  you  called  her  lovely.  I  don't  believe  it ! 
You  have  no  more  eye  for  beauty,  George  Barstoiie,  than 
an  old  he- goat  !    What's  her  style — the  light  or  the  dark  ?  " 

"  Miss  Wayne  is  fair,"  replied  George,  rather  subdued 
by  the  sick 'man's  cynicism.  "Blue-gray  eyes — lovely 
eves,  Phil — and  golden  hair — real  golden  hair.  She  isn't 
like  Miss  Fletcher  in  the  least.  She's  a  lady  to  her  finger- 
tips. You  ought  to  hear  her  play  and  sing.  Even  you, 
cold-blooded  reptile  that  you  are,  would  knock  under  in 
ten  minutes  !  " 

"  And  where  did  you  pick  up  this  peerless  paragon  ?" 

"  None  of  your  sneers,  Phil  I  Here  in  New  York  ;  and 
very  sorry  the  people  she  was  with  were  to  lose  her. 
Don't  think  this  is  like  my  old  scrapes.  It's  another 
affair  altogether,  and  I  never  was  half  so  serious  about 
anything  in  the  whole  course  of  my  life." 

''  Indeed  !  And  when  am  I  to  congratulate  you  ? 
Perhaps  von  have  already  proposed  ?  " 

"  T  should  have,  only  for  you.  I'll  ask  her  to  marry  me, 
before  I'm  three  hours  back  to  Golden  Willows  1" 


58  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

**  By  Jove  !  he  does  jxiean  business  !  "  cried  Philip  Bar- 
stone.  "  He  knows  his  own  mind  for  once.  And  the 
wedding  will  take  place  the  week  after.  I'm  certain,  for 
the  impressible  George  won't  be  able  to  wait  I" 

"I  shouldn't  wait  long  if  it  depended  on  me,  that's  cer- 
tain ;  buf  Miss  Wayne  may  say  no." 

"  Fanny's  governess  !  My  dear  boy,  modesty's  a  lovely 
virtue  in  youth — lovely  as  rare  ;  but  don't  yon  think  you're 
rather  overdoing  it  ?  Miss  Wayne  say  no  ?  I'm  rather 
short  of  funds,  George,  and  I  want  my  purse  replenished  ; 
so  I'll  lay  you  ten  to  one  she  snaps  at  you  like  a  cat  at  a 
mouse." 

George  Barstone  got  up  from  his  cousin's  bedside  with 
an  impatient  frown. 

"You  don't  know  Miss  Wayne,  Phil,"  he  said,  walking 
Tip  and  down.  '"  I  might  lose  my  temper,  only  for  that. 
You  don't  know  her.  She  isn't  like  Miss  Fletcher,  and 
she  isn't  like  any  governess  we  ever  had  at  Golden  Wil- 
lows. If  I  don't  marry  her — and  mind,  such  an  event  is 
more  than  doubtful,  for  tlie  best  men  in  Millford  are  after 
her— life  won't  be  worth  a  brass  button  !  I  spoke  to 
Aunt  Lydia  before  I  left,  and  I  shall  propose  to  Miss  Wayne 
directly  when  I  get  back." 

"  Just  as  you  please,  old  fellow,"  said  Philip.  '[  If  it 
be  serious,  you  have  my  best  wishes,  of  course.  Go  in  and 
win,  dear  boy,  and  my  blessing  be  upon  your  virtuous 
endeavors  ! " 

George  remained  two  days  in  New  York,  at  the  urgent 
solicitation  of  his  cousin. 

'^t's  so  horrible  lonely  here!"  Mr.  Philip  Barstone 
grumbled.  '' If  you  had  any  bowels  of  compassion,  you 
w^ouldn't  be  in  such  a  deuced  hurry  to  desert  a  fellow  to 
his  fate  and  liis  beef  tea.  But  I  see  how  it  is.  That 
gray-eyed,  golden-haired  governess  has  bewitched  you  ; 
and  a  chap  like  you,  in  love,  is  company  for  neither  man 
nor  beast  ! " 

"  I  dare  say  I  am  rather  restless,  Phil,"  George  said, 
apologetically.  "  I  promised  Aunt  Lydia  I  would  let  her 
know  how  you  were  as  soon  as  possible,  and  I  know  she'll 
be  anxious." 

''  You  couldn't  write  and  tell  her,  I  suppose  ?"  Philip 
said,  rather  sulkilv.  "  However,  go,  and  may  the  gods 
that  watch  over  fools  and  lovers  smile  propitiously  upon 


MR.  BARSTONE  PROPOSES.  5$ 

yon  !  Go  home.  My  unlovely  old  nurse,  and  grumpy 
Masterson,  are  better  ami  livelier  companions  than  you, 
sitting  yonder  staring  at  the  wall,  and  sighing  like  a  fur- 
nace.    Go  ;  the  sooner  tiie  better  !  " 

George  Barstone,  nothing  loth,  departed,  and  reached 
Millford  as  rajndly  as  the  "  resonant  steam  eagle"  could 
convey  him.  The  air  of  the  sultry  summer  afternoon  was 
opaque  Avith  amber  mist,  tlirough  which  Mr.  Barstone 
drove  like  the  wind. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  shall  find  her  at  home  ?  I  wonder  if  I 
will  get  a  chance  to  speak  to  her  this  evening  ?  Good 
heavens !  if  that  rich,  addle-pated  idiot,  Goldham,  has 
proposed  before  me,  and  been  accepted  ! " 

Mr.  Barstone  set  his  teeth  at  the  maddening  supposi- 
tion, and  lasheil  Sam,  the  pony,  into  a  furious  gallop.  He 
Hung  the  reins  to  Bill,  when  he  reached  Golden  "Willows, 
and  entered  the  house.  Ominous  stillness  reigned.  The 
rooms  below  were  deserted,  the  piano  closed.  No  one  was 
visible.  George  rang  the  bell  and  the  housemaid,  dipping 
and  smiling,  appeared. 

''Wliere's  Miss  Winters?  Where's  Miss  Wayne?" 
said  the  young  man,  with  startling  abruptness. 

'' Miss  Winters  and  Miss  Wayne  has  gone  to  a  picnic, 
sir,"  responded  the  smiling  damsel. 

"Gone  to  a  picnic  ?     Wliere  ?     Who  with  ?" 

Excitement  unsettled  ]\Ir.  Barstone's  grammar. 

'*  Mr.  Ifamilton  and  ]\Ir.  Goldham  took  'em,  sir,"  said 
the  smiling  one,  unconscious  of  the  dagger  she  was  plung- 
ing in  her  master's  breast.  ''  The  picnic  at  Blueberry 
Bank,  and  they've  been  gone  since  early  morning." 

George  Barstone  glared  vindictively  at  her,  and  then 
stalked,  in  sullen  majesty,  out  of  the  room  and  up-stairs. 
His  worst  fears  were  realized.  Sam  Goldham,  the  odious, 
had  her,  and  nothing  remained  for  him  but  a  double  dose 
of  prussic  acid  !  He  scowled  blackly  at  his  own  image  in 
the  dressing-glass,  and  savagely  twitched  his  necktie 
straight. 

"  I  don't  set  up  for  a  beauty  I  "  (Jeorge  muttered,  bit- 
terly ;  '*  but  I'll  be  hanged  if  I'm  not  a  better-looking 
fellow  than  that  bull-necked,  blear-eyed,  driveling  d(»tarff, 
Sam  (ioldliain  !  If  slu;  accej^ts  him  she  is  worthy  of  notii- 
ing  but  my  deejiest  contempv.  I'll  go  to  this  confounded 
picnic.     I'll  see  for  myself  ;  and,  if  my  feaxs  prove  ti'ue. 


60  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

I'll  send  women  and  matrimony  to  the  deuce  for  the  rest 

of  my  natural  life  !  " 

He  could  not  wait  to  see  his  aunt.  He  set  off  at  once, 
and  reached  the  picnic  grounds  as  the  sun  was  setting  in  a 
glory  of  golden  light.  And  through  the  golden  glow, 
radiant  as  a  vision,  he  saw  Magdalen  Wayne  coming  toward 
him,  side  by  side  with  tlie  odious  Goldham.  But  George's 
heart  need  not  have  sunk  straight  into  his  boots,  for  Mr. 
Goldham's  face  was  by  no  means  lit  up  with  the  rapture 
of  an  accepted  lover,  and  Miss  Wayne  looked  altogether 
weary  and  listless. 

"■  Hallo,  Barstone  ! "  cried  Mr.  Goldham.  And  there 
Mr.  Goldham  paused,  aghast  at  the  expression  Mr.  Bar- 
stone's  countenance  wore. 

Miss  Wayne's  weary  face  brightened  suddenly.  She 
held  out  her  hand  with  a  blush  and  a  smile  that  made  the 
young  man  giddy  with  new-born  hope. 

"  Such  an  unexpected  pleasure,  Mr.  Barstone  !  We  did 
not  expect  you  for  a  week.     Fanny  will  be  so  pleased  I " 

Fanny  !  Wliat  did  Mr.  Barstone  care  for  Fanny  ?  In 
one  instant  his  face  was  radiant. 

"And  your  cousin,"  Miss  Wayne  went  on,  drooping  a 
little  before  that  electric  glow.  "  I  hope  you  left  him 
better  ?  " 

"  Xo— yes.  That  is,  Miss  Wayne,  they're  going  to  dance. 
May  I  have  the  honor  ?  "  cried  George,  incoherently. 

But  Miss  Wayne  was  engaged  to  Mr.  Goldham,  and  after 
that  they  were  to  go  home.  But  the  bright  glance  with 
which  she  told  him  almost  consoled  Mr.  Barstone  for  the 
disappointment. 

''I  knew  she  couldn't  care  for  that  donkey  ! "  thought 
Mr,  Barstone,  moving  off  in  search  of  Fanny.  ''  And  how 
beautifully  she  blushed  at  sight  of  me  !  I  was  a  fool  and 
a  madman  to  doubt  her  for  a  moment,  or  fancy  she  would 
sell  herself  to  Sam  Goldham  for  his  hundred  thousand 
dollars ! " 

"  Good  gracious,  George  ! "  Miss  Winters  shrilly  cried, 
as  he  came  up.  "  You  have  given  me  quite  a  turn  ! 
How's  Phil  ?  " 

"  A  little  off  his  feed,"  answered  George  ;  "but  as  well 
as  can  be  expected.  Don't  worry  about  him,  Fanny.  He 
isn't  worrying  about  you  !  " 

In  the  luminous  dust  of  the  summer  evening  the  pic- 


MR.  BARSTONE  PROPOSES.  61 

nickers  went  home — Oeorffe,  as  he  came,  by  himself,  Miss 
Wayne  still  with  Mr.  Goluham.  Golden  AVillows  was  the 
first  house  they  readied,  and  there  they  aliglited  to  par- 
take of  tea.  The  lamps  were  lit  in  the  pleasant  ])arlors, 
and  a  tempting  supper  laid  out  under  tlieir  s])arkling 
lights. 

'*  Oh,  hang  it  I"  thought  George,  eying  Mr.  Goldham 
in  disgust,  "  will  he  never  let  her  go  ?  The  egregious 
ninny  will  stick  to  Miss  Wayne  like  a  leech,  I  suppose, 
until  midnight." 

But  for  once  the  Fates  smiled  on  George.  A  servant 
handed  him  a  letter  as  he  stood  glowering  in  the  doorway. 

"  For  Miss  Wayne,  sir,  and  I  can't  get  through  to  give 
it  to  her." 

George  glanced  at  the  letter. 

*'From  that  old  nurse  in  New  Hampshire,"  he  thought. 
**  It  Avill  get  her  away  from  Goldham." 

lie  made  his  way  to  where  she  sat. 

*'  Will  you  step  out  into  the  hall  a  moment,  Miss  Wayne? 
you  are  wanted.     Mr.  Goldham  will  excuse  you." 

She  rose  at  once  and  followed  him  out.  He  gave  her 
the  letter. 

"  From  nurse  Rachel ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  am  so 
glad  !     Thanks,  Mr,  Barstone,  for  my  delivery  !" 

She  ran  out,  laughing  into  the  silvery  twilight.  He  saw 
her  take  the  path  leading  to  the  walk,  and  disappear. 
Half  an  hour  passed.  George  walked  under  the  trees, 
smoking  and  waiting  ;  but  Magdalen  did  not  reai^pear. 
Another  quarter  of  an  hour  ;  then  he  flung  away  his  cigar, 
and  struck  resolutely  down  the  Willow  walk. 

Magdalen  sat  on  the  bank,  her  hands  folded,  looking  at 
the  solemn,  shining  water.  Her  face  was  very  pale  in  the 
silvery  light. 

'^You  are  looking  whiter  and  more  mournful  than  a 
spirit,  Miss  Wayne,"  he  said,  gently.  ''  No  bad  news,  I 
trust  ?  " 

Magdalen  looked  up. 

"No,"  she  said.  "  They  are  all  well  at  home.  It  is 
not  that.     They  have  sent  for  me,  I  suppose  ?  " 

She  was  rising  to  go  ;  but  he  made  a  blind,  sudden 
motion  to  dctaiii  her. 

'"Magdalen — ^liss  Wayne — don't  go.  I  want  you  tA 
fltay.     I  want  you  to  listen  to  me." 


62  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

One  glance  up  in  his  agitated  face,  and  she  knew,  be- 
fore he  had  uttered  another  word,  what  was  coming.  She 
recoilied  a  pace,  then  stood  still. 

What  George  Barstone  said,  heaven  knows — he  never 
knew  himself.  Brokenly,  incoherently,  he  told  the  story 
he  had  come  to  tell — the  story  that  all  the  eloquence  of  a 
Cicero  must  resolve  into  three  poor  words  : 

'•  I  love  yon  !  " 

Slie  shrank  away  and  covered  her  face  with  both  hands, 
q;iick  thrills  of  rapture  filling  her  heart,  and  telling  her 
that  she  loved  him  too.  At  his  passionate  pleading,  she 
looked  up. 

"Don't!  don't!"  she  said,  brokenly;  "pray  don't! 
Oh,  Mr.  Barstone." 

"Don't  say  no,  Magdalen  I  For  God's  sake,  don't  say 
no  !     You  don't  know  how  I  love  you  !     Don't  say  no  ! " 

She  had  grown  marble-white  and  cold.  She  drew 
further  away,  and  put  out  her  hands  to  keep  him  off. 

"I  cannot  say  either  yes  or  no  to-night,  Mr.  Barstone. 
Give  me  time  to  think.  Wait  until  to-morrow,  and  you 
shall  have  your  answer." 

She  was  gone  with  the  words  on  her  lips ;  and  George 
Barstone,  dizzy  and  blind  with  emotion,  stood  alone  under 
the  shining  stars. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

TOLD   IN   THE   TWILIGHT. 

Mr.  Barstone,  in  his  professional  capacity,  no  doubt 
had  some  knowledge  of  the  manner  condemned  men  passed 
the  night  before  their  execution,  but  he  had  never  known 
from  experience  before.  Deliriously  hopeful,  dismally 
despairing,  walking  up  and  down,  tossing  about  in  bed, 
morning  mercifully  came  at  last. 

Miss  Wayne  and  Mr.  Barstone  met  at  breakfast  ;  and 
if  she  looked  pale,  he  looked  haggard.  Miss  Winters  had 
the  talk  all  to  herself,  and,  to  do  her  justice,  there  was 
very  little  flagging  in  the  monologue. 

"  Every  one  said  they  never  enjoyed  themselves  so 
much,"  chattered  the  young  lady,  "  and  everything  passed 
off  lovely,     I  waltzed  all  day,  and  Frank  Hamilton— Qh, 


TOLD  IN  THE  TWILIGHT.  68 

George  !  if  you  could  only  waltz  like  Frank  Hamilton  I 
I  don't  know  any  higher  bliss  on  this  earth  than  waltzing 
with  him.  ThuVs  three  '  waltzings  '  close  together,  Mag- 
dalen ;  but  I  suppose  it's  no  mutter  out  of  study  hours. 
How  silent  you  and  George  are  this  morning,  to  bo  sure  ! " 

George  looked  annoyed.  ^lagdalen  blushed,  and  there 
was  an  awkward  little  pause. 

"  It  can't  be  tliat  oitlier  of  you  over-fatigued  yourselves 
dancing,"  pursued  Miss  AVinters,  seeing  their  cml)arrass- 
ment  and  highly  enjoying  it,  "  because  Magdalen  didn't 
dance  half  a  dozen  times,  and  George  didn't  dance  at  all. 
And  then  in  the  evening — and  that  reminds  me  !  Where 
did  you  two  go  off  together  in  the  evening  ?  Everybody 
wondered,  and  poor  Sam  Gold  ham — Magdalen,  you  ought 
to  have  seen  his  distressed  face." 

Mr.  Barstone  rose  from  the  table  with  a  frown,  and  the 
governess  made  an  imperative  signal  to  her  pupil  to  cease. 

'*  I  want  you  to  practise  that  duet  in  Massaniello  imme- 
diately," she  said,  also  rising.  "  Come  !  Mr.  Barstone, 
good-morning." 

She  swept  away,  leaving  George  by  the  window,  gazing 
gloomily  out. 

A  drearily  wet  day  had  followed  yesterday's  sunshine 
and  moonlight.  A  low,  complaining  wind  tossed  the  trees, 
and  the  flat  fields  lay  sodden  under  a  leaden  sky. 

The  lawyer  made  no  pretense  of  going  to  ^lillford  that 
day.  He  wandered  in  and  out,  like  a  feverish  ghost,  lying 
forlornly  on  sofas,  trying  to  read,  or  smoking  insanely 
under  the  dripping  trees.  Why  did  she  keep  him  in  sus- 
pense ?  Why  did  she  not  pronounce  his  doom  at  once  ? 
How  could  she  go  about  her  daily  tasks  witli  that  face  of 
changeless  calm  ?  How  merciless  all  women  were  to  the 
men  who  loved  them  ! 

Magdalen  did  studiously  avoid  him.  She  kept  Fanny 
at  the  piano  all  the  forenoon,  until  that  tortured  young 
person  broke  out  into  an  agonized  cry  for  freedom.  She 
chained  her  down  to  "  Ollendorf's  method  "  and  the  "^  De- 
cline and  Fall,"  until  Miss  Winters  turned  hoarse,  and 
hated  Gibbon  and  the  whole  Roman  Empire. 

The  early  tea  aiul  dinner  agreeably  diversified  these  in- 
tellectual pursuits  ;  ilie  sluules  of  evening  fell,  ami  still 
the  prisoner  at  Golden  Willows  was  "  waiting  for  tha 
verdict." 


64  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

*'ril  wait  no  longer,"  he  thought,  desperately;  "sJM 

shall. give  me  my  answer  after  tea.  ' 

He  never  spoke  during  tliat  meal.  Fanny's  small  talk 
clattered  about  his  ears  like  the  patter  of  the  ceaseless 
summer  rain,  all  unheard.  It  was  ended  at  last,  and  the 
girls  rose  to  go.  Then  Mr.  Barstone  wielded  manhood's 
scepter  and  asserted  his  rights, 

*'  Fanny,  go  up-stairsand  remain  with  your  aunt.  Miss 
Wayne,  be  good  enough  to  stay  where  you  are  ;  I  wish  to 
speak  with  you  ! " 

There  was  an  imperious  ring  in  the  young  man's  voice, 
an  unwonted  fire  in  his  eye,  that  made  him  their  master. 

"Goodness!"  interjected  Fanny,  under  lier  breath, 
not  daring  to  disobey  ;  and  Magdalen  paused,  paling  per- 
ceptibly. 

Mr.  Barstone  dashed  impetuously  into  the  heart  of  his 
subject  at  once. 

"  You  have  persistently  avoided  me  all  day,  Miss  Wayne, 
and  left  me  in  a  state  of  unendurable  suspense.  You 
promised  me  my  answer  to-day.  Y'"ou  must  keep  that 
promise."' 

He  was  standing  before  her— very  pale  for  him.  Mag- 
dalen still  lingered  by  the  door,  her  hand  upon  the  lock, 
her  fair  liead  drooping.  The  rainy  gloaming  was  just 
clear  enouah  to  show  him  that  slender,  bending  shape, 
that  sweet,  downcast  face.  The  twilight  picture  never 
left  him  in  the  troubled  days  to  come. 

"  I  should  not,  I  suppose,"  Magdalen  said,  fa]te^ingly— 
"  I  should  not  have  kept  you  waiting  so  long.  But  I 
meant  to  speak  to-night,  and  '" — still  more  falteringly— 
"  it  is  so  very  hard  to  say." 

A  lump  rose  in  George  Barstone's  tliroat.  Perhaps  it 
was  his  heart,  for  that  organ  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
ceased  beating. 

"So  very  hard  to  say,  Miss  Wayne  1  Then  my  answer 
is  to  be  no." 

His  voice  sounded  strange,  and  hollow,  and  far-off,  even 
to  himself,  and  he  knew  he  was  whiter  than  ashes. 

"  No,  no  !  "  Magdalen  cried,  impetuously — "  at  least — 
that  is — I  mean  I  have  a  story  to  tell  you  that  may  cause 
you  to  change  your  mind." 

"  Change  my  mind  !  Magdalen,  I  think  there  is  noth- 
ing on  earth  could  make  me  do  that."  ^ 


TOLD  IN  THE  TWILir.HT.  65 

**  Ah,  yon  shall  sec  !  I  tim  going  to  tell  you  my  story, 
and  when  you  hear  how  I  have  deceived  you,  you  surely 
will.     No  cue  could  l)lHme  you  for  doing  it," 

He  crossed  the  room  and  took  a  seat  hy  the  window — 
still  very,  very  pale,  still  strangely  calm.  There  was  a 
chair  opposite,  upon  which  the  faint  light  fell  strongest. 
He  motioned  her  to  that. 

*'  Deceived  me  ?"  he  repeated,  looking  at  the  downcast 
face.     "How  have  you  done  that.  Miss  Wayne  ?  " 

"  By  that  name,  for  one  thing.  I  am  not  Miss  Wayne. 
My  name  is  Magdalen  Wayne  Allward." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Your  name  is  Allward.  Why  then,  are  you  here  as 
Miss  Wayne  ?  " 

'''  That  is  my  story.  The  end  I  had  in  view  in  changing 
my  name  is  an  end  unattaincd  yet — an  end  T  may  never 
attain.  There  is  a  secret  in  my  life,  Mr.  Burstone  ;  that 
life  is  consecrated  to  one  purpose.  I  am  not  like  other 
girls,  free  and  unfettered  ;  I  have  vowed  my  whole  exist- 
ence to  a  purpose  that  may  even  stand  between  me  and 
the  man  I  marry — if  marry  I  should.  That  is  why  I  could 
not  answer  you  last  night." 

Mr.  Barstone  listened  with  a  face  of  dense  mystification. 

''Then  it  was  through  no  personal  dislike,  Magdalen  ? 
only  because  of  this  secret  ?  If  it — this  strange  purpose 
— did  not  exist,  Magdalen — Magdalen,  would  your  answer 
have  been  yes  ?  " 

He  leaned  forward,  breathlessly,  catching  both  her 
hands.  Magdalen's  drooping  head  bent  lower  for  an  in- 
stant, then  lifted  proudly,  with  a  tender,  virginal  blush. 

"  Why  should  I  deny  it  ?  You  are  a  good  man,  Mr. 
Barstone.  Your  offer  is  an  honor  to  any  woman,  and  I 
love  you  very  dearly.  W^hatever  you  may  think  of  me 
when  you  hear  my  story,  whatever  change  it  may  make 
in  your  feelings,  believe  me,  the  memory  of  your  goodness 
and  affection  will  ever  be  the  dearest  memory  of  my  life.'* 

Something  in  the  sad  solemnity  of  her  tone,  something 
in  the  mournfnl  sweetness  of  lior  face,  hushed  the  impet- 
uous words  he  would   have  uttered.     Maprdalen  went  on  : 

'*  Four  years  ago,  Mr.  Barstone,  I  left  a  happy  country 
home,  a  loving  father,  a  bcaiitiful  elder  sister,  an  honest, 
gentle  brother,  a  kind  old  nurse,  and  went  to  New  Haven 
to  school.     I  was  away  barely  a  year,  when  I  was  sent  for 


66  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

iiiluistc  to  return.  I  knew  beforehand  that  great  and  sad 
cliiuiges  hud  occnrred  in  my  absence,  but  I  was  not  pre- 
pared fx^r  the  awful  bereavement  that  had  fallen  upon  me. 
Mv  father  was  in  his  grave  a  heart-broken,  disgraced  old 
man  ;  my  brother  was  in  a  felon's  cell,  my  sister  lay  dead 
in  the  house.  Only  my  poor  nurse  was  left  to  bid  me 
welcome.  And,  Mr.  Barstone,  all  this  ruin  and  death 
was  the  work  of  one  man." 

George  Barstone  uttered  a  faint  exclamation,  but  she 
never  looked  at  him.  Her  hands  were  folded  in  her  lap, 
her  eyes  gazing  out  in  their  fathomless  sadness  at  the 
leaden  evening  sky, 

"  This  man — this  demon  in  man's  form — came  to  our 
village,  to  our  house,  in  insidious  friendship.  He  was 
handsome,  elegant  and  gentlemanly,  and  easily  won  my 
poor  sister's  trusting  heart.  How  was  she  to  know,  poor 
child,  of  the  wickedness  and  deceit  of  this  bad  world, 
brought  up  as  she  was.  She  loved  liim,  she  believed  him, 
she  trusted  him  entirely.  It  is  the  old  story,  Mr.  Barstone, 
of  man's  perfidy  and  woman's  blind  faith.  There  were  high 
and  mighty  relatives  away  in  New  York,  whom  he  dare  not 
offend  by  openly  marrying  so  lowly  a  bride.  If  she  would 
but  follow  him  to  the  city,  they  would  be  united  secretly 
and  at  once.  She  consented — she  followed  him,  there  was 
a  mockery  of  marriage  performed,  real  and  holy  to  her, 
and  she  was  as  surely  that  villain's  wife,  in  the  sight  of 
heaven,  as  women  ever  was  yet. 

"  That  was  the  begiiniing  of  the  end.  My  father,  as 
proud  a  man,  in  his  stainless  integrity,  as  earth  ever  saw, 
never  lifted  his  head  again.  Only  her  flight  was  known 
and  believed  in — no  one  credited  a  marriage.  It  needed 
but  his  son's  fall  to  send  him  to  the  grave. 

"Willie  went  to  New  York  to  complete  his  medical 
studies,  and  there  he  encountered  the  man  who  had  lured 
away  his  sister.  Instead  of  seeking  justice  and  reparation 
for  that  wrong,  he  became  his  friend.  The  wretch  was  a 
professional  gambler.  Willie  was  but  a  boy,  weak  and 
easily  tempted.  He  fell  a  victim  to  the  tempter's  crafty 
wiles,  and  became  heart  and  soul  a  gambler,  too.  The 
downward  race  was  rapid — a  few  months,  and  all  he  pos- 
sessed was  gone.  The  terrible  spell  held  him  fast — he 
forged  a  signature — was  detected,  arrested,  tried  and  sen' 
tenced  to  Sing  Sing  for  four  years." 


TOLD  IN  THE  TWILIGHT.  67 

She  paused  in  her  dreadful  tale,  rigid  and  tearless  and 
white,  and  George  Barstone  spoke  suddenly,  in  a  voice 
that  did  not  sound  like  his  own  : 

**  Do  you  desire  to  keep  secret  this  man's  name  ?  If 
you  do  not " 

*'  I  do  not,"  Magdalen  interrupted.  '*  His  name  is 
Maurice  Langley." 

There  was  a  pause.  Mr.  Barstone  drew  back  into  the 
shadow  of  the  curtains,  where  his  face  was  hidden. 

"  Maurice  Langley  was  tlie  name  he  gave,"  the  girl 
went  slowly  on,  "but  of  course,  it  was  assumed.  In  fact, 
my  sister  discovered  positively  that  it  was." 

''  And  she  discovered  liis  real  name  ?  " 

"  No.     Ah,  if  she  had  only  discovered  that !  '* 

*'  What  was  he  like — this  Maurice  Langley  ?" 

"  Tall  and  handsome,  with  dark  hair  and  whiskers, 
very  elegant  in  address  and  manner.  Why,"  she  asked 
with  sudden  suspicion,  *'  do  you  know  him  ?" 

"No,"  replied  George  Barstone,  "no,  I  don't  know 
him." 

But  he  still  spoke  in  a  strange,  constrained  voice,  and 
kept  his  face  persistently  shadowed  by  the  window- 
curtains. 

"  Willie's  ruin  completed  what  Laura's  flight  began," 
pursued  Magdalen;  "It  killed  my  father!  My  poor 
nurse  was  left  alone  in  the  old  homestead,  never  expecting 
CO  see  any  of  her  children,  save  myself,  again.  When  all 
at  once,  without  word  or  warning,  after  weary  months  of 
waiting,  Laura  came  home — came  home  to  die,  Mr.  Bar- 
stone, and  leave  a  baby-girl  behind  her.  She  had  dis- 
covered all'the  falsehood  and  treaeliery  of  the  wretch  who 
bad  lured  her  away,  and  maddened  by  the  discovery,  she 
Qed  from  him  at  dead  of  night,  a  crazed  and  frantic 
woman.  He  had  a  wife  living  before  he  ever  met  her — 
she  had  never  been  that  for  one  moment.  She  was  dis- 
graced and  lost  ;  there  was  nothing  left  but  to  die. 

"  Nurse  Rachel  sent  for  me.  I  returned  home.  I 
saw  her  in  her  winding  sheet.  I  saw  her  laid  in 
her  grave.  On  her  death-bed  she  had  written  me  a 
letter,  telling  me  all — telling  me  she  died  with  no  for- 
giveness for  her  betrayer.  No  !  her  wrongs  were  so  many 
and  great  that  even  on  her  death-bed  she  could  not  for- 
give. And,  Mr.  Barstone,  kneeling  by  her  grave,  I  vowed 
never  to  forgive  him  either.    I  swore  there;  alone  with 


08  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

heaven  and  my  dead,  to  devote  my  life  to  seeking  ont  the 
murderer  of  all  I  loved  best,  and  bring  him  to  justice  for 
his  crimes.  I  vowed  to  be  avenged  on  Maurice  Langley, 
wherever  and  whenever  I  should  meet  him,  and  if  1  live  I 
will  keep  th-at  vow!" 

The  ringing  voice  ceased.  There  was  a  long,  thrilling 
pause.  The  rainy  twilight  was  darkness  now,  through 
which  the  girl's  white  face  gleamed.  George  Bars  tone  sat 
stonily  still — an  hour  or  two,  as  it  seemed  to  him  in  that 
supreme  moment.     Then  he  spoke  out  of  the  darkness  : 

'^  This  is  all  ?  " 

''  All !  "  repeated  Magdalen.  "  You  know  the  story  of 
my  life  as  I  know  it  myself.     It  is  my  secret  and  you  must 

keep  it." 

"  I  will  keep  a  thousand  secrets,  if  you  will  consent  to 

be  my  wife." 

"  Mr.  Barstone,  after  all  this— can  you— will  you 

"lean  and  I  will  !  "  George  answered,  rising  and  tak- 
ing her  in  his  arms.  "  My  own  Magdalen,  what  is  there 
in  all  this  to  keep  us  apart  ?  It  is  a  sad  and  pitiful  story, 
my  dearest,  but  you  have  suffered  enough  already,  with- 
out leMing  it  blight  your  whole  life.  My  poor,  wronged 
girl !  let  me  try  to  make  you  forget  -the  troubles  of  the 
past — let  me  make  you  my  beloved  wife." 

"  Magdalen's  face  fell  on  his  shoulder  with  a  sort  of  sob. 
She  had  been  alone  in  the  world  so  long  that  it  was  unut- 
terably sweet,  this  loving  and  being  beloved. 

"  I  will  try  and  make  you  so  happy,  my  own  dear  girl, 
that  you  will  forget  this  cruel  trouble  of  the  past,  and  this 
wild  avenging  vow,"  George  said,  holding  her  close  to  his 
heart.  "I  will  love  you  so  dearly  that  you  will  forget 
Maurice  LangVey  and  his  villainy." 

The  words  awoke  Magdalen  from  her  short  moment  of 
bliss.  She  lifted  her  head  and  struggled  from  his 
arms. 

"No  !"  she  exclaimed.  "No,  George  Barstone,  1  will 
never  forget  !  Maurice  Langley  is  my  deadly  foe— I 
will  never  forget— never  forgive  !  Heaven  helping  rae, 
I  will  keep  my  vow  !  " 

"  Heaven  will  not  help  you,  Magdalen.  There  I "  point- 
ing upward,  "  is  the  only  Avenger.  Wait,  my  own  dear 
girl—wait.  The  mills  of  the  gods  grind  slowly,  but 
terribly  sure.     You  have  been  wronged,  my  darling,  but 


TOLD  IN  THE  TWILIGHT.  69 

forgetfnlness  is  a  doty.  This  wild  talk  of  revenge  sounds 
monstrous  from  lips  so  fair  and  sweet." 

"Yes,  yes,  1  know  !  "  the  girl  cried  impatiently.  "  I 
know  what  you  would  say — it  has  all  been  said  to  me  be- 
fore. It  is  unwomanly,  it  is  wicked,  it  is  unchristian  !  I 
don't  know,  I  don't  care,  I  don't  believe  it  I  I  do  not  ask 
for  revenge — I  only  ask  justice." 

She  began  walking  up  and  down,  always  her  habit  when 
excited. 

"  See  here,  Mr.  Barstone  !  "  she  said,  "  they  were  all 
the  world  to  me — father,  sister,  brother.  lie  was  more 
fiend  than  man,  who  wrought  their  ruin.  He  deserves  no 
mercy  :  he  will  find  none  from  me  !  " 

"  What  will  you  do  ?"  George  Barstone's  voice  sounded 
cold  and  a  little  stern,  after  those  girlish,  passionate  tones. 

"  I  don't  know— I  can't  tell.  He  may  be  dead  and 
buried  ;  he  may  be  alive,  and  I  may  never  meet  him.  I 
may  see  him  to-morrow,  and  not  know  him.  But  if  I 
ever  do  meet  him  and  know  him,  I  tell  you  I  will  keep  my 
promise  to  my  dead  sister  !  " 

"  As  how  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I  will  keep  it." 

The  lawyer  smiled,  in  the  dusk,  at  the  feminine  impo- 
tent vehemence. 

"  IIow  ?  "  he  reiterated.  "  You  won't  murder  him,  I 
suppose,  Magdalen  ?  And  what  else  can  you  do  ?  The 
law  won't  punish  him  because  your  sister  eloped  with  him 
or  because  he  taught  your  brotlier  to  play  cards.  Those 
accusations  won't  stand  in  a  court  of  law." 

"  Mr.  Barstone,"  said  Magdalen,  stopping  in  her  rapid 
walk,  and  speaking  slowly  and  impressively.  "  I  am  only 
a  girl— a  weak,  helpless  girl — and  there  is  not  one  chance 
to  fifty  that  I  may  ever  meet  this  man.  I  have  changed 
my  name,  so  that  if  we  should  by  chance  meet  he  might 
not  recognize  me  by  that.  I  resemble  my  dead  sister — 
that  is  beyond  my  power  to  help.  I  have  never  met  Mau- 
rice Langley,  but  I  have  told  you  all  this,  lest  in  the 
chapter  of  accidents  to  come  that  meeting  may  be  num- 
bered. If  I  were  to  take  you  at  your  word,  and  become 
your  wife  concealing  my  life's  purpose,  I  should  be  doing 
you  wrong.  If  knowing  all,  my  steadfast,  unalterable 
resolve,  you  still  are  of  the  same  mind,  then,  no  matter 
how  soon  I  meet  him,  I  shall  be  justified,  as  far  as  you  are 


70  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

concemc'il.  in  keeping  my  vow.     And   I  would  keep  it, 

Mr.   Bar-  'one,  in  spite  of  fifty  husbands  !  " 

'*  Magt'aleu  !  Magdalen  !  my  impetuous,  foolish  girl. 
Once  again,  what  would  you  do  ?" 

"  And,  once  again,  1  cannot  tell  you  now.  But  such 
a  man  as  that  must  have  guilty,  hidden  secrets  that  would 
lay  him  open  to  the  law.  If  I  could  do  no  better  1  would 
spend  my  days  and  nights  tracking  out  these.  I  would 
dog  him  like  a  sleuth  hound.  I  would  hunt  him  down 
and  go  to  his  hanging  with  pleasure  !  " 

She  clenched  her  hands  passionately,  and  her  eyes 
flashed  fire  in  the  deepening  dusk.  And  this  was  the  fair- 
haired,  blue-eyed,  low-voiced  divinity  of  his  dreams,  but 
one  remove  or  so  from  an  angel. 

''Magdalen  !     Good  heavens  !"  cried  her  lover  aghast. 

"  I  would  !  I  tell  you  I  would  !  If  there  were  no  other 
way,  I  think  I  would  tempt  liim  to  commit  a  crime,  that  I 
might  hand  him  over  for  punishment.  Oh,  Mr.  Barstone, 
you  don't  know  me  yet !  I  tell  you  I  have  brooded  and 
brooded  over  this  man's  villainy  until  I  have  been  half 
mad,  and  if  ever  I  meet  him — no  matter  how — my  heart 
will  be  harder  to  him  than  this  marble  !  " 

She  struck  the  table  lightly  with  her  clenched  hand, 
standing  up,  in  her  passionate  and  indomitable  resolution, 
a  sternly  beautiful  young  Nemesis. 

There  was  a  pause.  Poor  George  stood  with  a  very 
blank  face  indeed. 

''  I  tell  you  all  this,  Mr.  Barstone,"  Magdalen  resumed 
in  a  steadier  voice,  "  because  I  esteem  you  so  highly,  and 
— yes,  why  should  I  deny  it  ? — because  I  love  you  so  well. 
No  man  shall  ever  marry  me  and  think  me  better  than  I 
lam." 

''There  is  no  need,  Magdalen!"  He  crossed  over  in 
one  stride  and  caught  her  in  his  arms.  "  You  are  mine — 
mine  forever — since  you  love  me  !  My  poor  darling  ! 
Maurice  Langley  shall  never  keep  us  apart  ;  he  has  done 
too  much  evil  already.  You  shall  be  my  wife — come  weal, 
come  woe  !  " 

His  voice  lowered,  a  sort  of  ominous  solemnity  thrilled 
in  his  tone,  aiul  for  an  instant  there  was  a  chill  at  his 
heart.  Gone  as  quickly  as  it  came — more  quickly,  for 
Magdalen  Allward's  beautiful  face  lay  on  his  breast — her 
home  for  life. 


TOLD  IN  TWILIGHT.  71 

"  Dear  George  !  how  good — how  generous  you  are  !  " 
Ah  !  liow  altered  her  tone  from  a  moment  before — so  in- 
finitely grateful,  loving  and  womanly  now.  "  I  am  not 
half  worthy  of  you  !  I  am  a  passionate,  hot-headed  girl  ; 
but  I  love  you  very  dearly,  and  I  will  try,  with  heaven's 
help  to  make  you  as  good  a  wife  as  a  better  woman." 

And  just  here  the  door  was  flung  wide  by  an  impetuous 
hand,  and,  with  a  strong  swish  of  silk,  some  one  bounced  in. 

"  May  I  come  in  now  ?  "  cried  Miss  Winters,  in  shrill 
sarcasm.  "  Aunt  Lydia's  been  asleep  these  two  hours,  and 
I've  been — good  gracious  me  !  there's  no  one  here,  and  all's 
in  the  dark  !     Where  on  earth  are  Magdalen  and  George  ?  " 

Miss  Winters  found  the  match  box,  after  a  good  deal  of 
fumbling,  distracted  in  her  search  by  the  upsetting  of  a 
footstool,  and  the  swift  shutting  of  the  door.  But  she 
struck  a  lucifer  at  last,  lighted  the  lamp,  and  beheld 
George  sitting  serenely  in  an  arm-chair,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  gazing  at  her. 

'*  Oh,  you're  here  !  "  exclaimed  the  young  lady,  looking 
blankly  around  ;  "  where's  Magdalen  ?  " 

"  Where  she  pleases  ;  she's  not  here." 

"Who  went  out  just  now?"  demanded  Fanny,  with 
asperity. 

"  It  was  dark,  and  I'm  not  a  cat.  You  ought  to  know 
as  well  as  I  do." 

"  Ought  I  ?"  with  scorn.  "I  dare  say  I  do,  too!  I 
came  in  too  soon,  didn't  I  ?  I  had  better  go  back  and 
stay  with  Ajint  Lydia  a  few  hours  longer,  hadn't  I  ?" 

*'  Fanny,"  her  cousin  said,  placidly,  "  don't  try  to  be 
sarcastic — it  isn't  your  forte.  And  I  wish  you  wouldn't 
bother  me  with  questions — go  away,  like  a  good  girl.  I 
want  to  smoke  and  look  over  my  notes  of  the  Scroggins  vs. 
Boggs'  case,  whicli  comes  up  to-morrow." 

Miss  Winters  smiled  sardonically. 

"Scroggins  vs.  Boggs,  indeed  !  It's  all  very  fine  and 
very  plausible,  Mr.  Special  Pleader,  but  it  doesn't  deceive 
me  !  You've  been  and  asked  Magdalen,  you  know,  under 
cover  of  the  darkness,  and  slic  ran  away  when  I  came  in. 
I'll  go  and  find  her.  I'll  know  by  her  face  directly 
whether  it's  to  be  or  not — though  of  course  it  is,  or  George 
would  never  look  so  ridiculously  blissful.  I  wonder 
whether  I  had  best  wear  pink  or  blue,  as  first  brides- 
maid?" 


n  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 


CHAPTER    X. 

E]SrGAGED. 


Like  the  most  dutiful  of  nephews  and  the  happiest  of 
men,  as  he  was,  George  Barstone  sought  his  aunt,  in  her 
room,  early  next  morning,  and  reported  the  favorable  re- 
sult of  his  wooing.  It  scarcely  needed  many  words,  for 
one  look  at  that  illuminated  countenance,  quite  glorified 
by  bliss,  at  once  informed  Miss  Barstone  how  matters  stood. 

"  My  foolish,  love-sick  boy,"  Aunt  Lydia  said,tapping 
him  on  the  cheek  ;  "  it  seems  only  yesterday  since  you  came 
running  in,  with  that  same  beatified  face,  to  thank  me  for 
a  new  humming-top.  And  so  pretty  Magdalen  has  said 
yes,  and  onr  impetuous  George  is  to  have  his  new  toy  ?" 

"  She  has  said  yes,  Aunt  Lydia,  and  she  has  told  me  the 
story  of  her  life." 

"  Indeed  !     There  is  a  story,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  a  story  of  suffering,  sorrow  and  cruel  wrong. 
My  poor  girl  has  endured  enough  in  her  twenty  years  for 
a  long  lifetime." 

And  then  George  sat  down  beside  his  aunt  and  repeated 
the  story  he  had  heard  last  evening  in  the  twilight.  He 
told  everything — the  assumed  name — the  Quixotic  vow 
of  vengeance. 

"  It  is  very  wild,  romantic  and  silly,  this  scheme  of 
revenge — this  girlish  Vendetta,"  the  lover  pleaded,  depre- 
catingly — "  and  what  one  would  hardly  look  for  in  so  sen- 
sible a  girl  as  Magdalen.  But,  as  it  is  the  remotest  of 
all  remote  possibilities,  her  ever  meeting  or  knowing 
this  Maurice  Langley,  why  let  her  cherish  her  foolish  de- 
lusions. It  is  really  marvelous,  the  hold  this  desire  of 
future  revenge  has  upon  her  mind.  It  seems  to  have  be- 
came a  sort  of  monomania  with  her." 

*'  And  monamanias  are  very  troublesome  and  dangerous 
things,  George,"  his  aunt  said,  gravely.  "  Magdalen  is  a 
very  resolute  young  person,  and  if  this  absurd  infatuation 
grows  and  strengthens,  the  day  may  come  when  it  will  cost 
you  and  her  very  serious  trouble." 

It  was  Magdalen  herself  who,  in  an  interview  that  morn- 


ENGAGED.  78 

ing,  had  given  her  lover  permission  to  unfold  her  cher- 
ished secret  to  his  aunt. 

"I  can  trust  Miss  Barstone  with  it,  George,"  she  said, 
blushing  prettily  as  she  pronounced  the  name.  "  I  can 
trust  her,  but  not  Fanny,  whom  I  know  too  well,  and  not 
your  cousin  Philip,  whom  I  don't  know  at  all.  1  suppose 
I  must  be  married  under  my  real  name,  and  sign  it  in  the 
register,  but  a  few  words  of  explanation  will  suffice  for  the 
clergyman.  Wayne  is  my  name  also,  and  by  it  1  siiall 
continue  to  be  called." 

*'  Until  you  have  changed  it  to  Barstone,  my  dearest." 
George  replied,  "  and  the  change  must  be  very  soon.  No 
need  for  us  to  wait.  Tiiis  will  bo  our  home,  after  our 
marriage,  as  it  is  now.  Aunt  Lydia  would  not  hear  for  ti 
moment  of  our  deserting  her." 

Miss  Barstone  had  listened  to  the  story  with  a  very  grave 
and  thoughtful  face. 

"It  is,  as  you  say,"  she  remarked  to  her  nephew,  "a 
very  remote  possibility,  the  meeting  of  Magdalen  and  her 
enemy  ;  but  yet,  it  is  a  possibility,  and,  as  such,  worth 
considering.  Should  she,  in  the  wonderful  course  of 
things,  ever  encounter  him,  I  tremble  for  your  future. 
She  has  a  powerful  will,  and  seems  bent,  with  all  her 
might,  on  keeping  her  melodramatic  vow." 

"  Fully  bent  now,  my  dear  aunt ;  but  who  knows  the 
change  time  and  happiness,  and  life's  new  duties  may 
bring  ?  She  has  been  suffering  for  the  past  four  years 
from  the  consequences  of  that  villain's  work,  and  so  Jias 
been  unable  to  forget.  It  Avill  be  different  in  the  future. 
We  will  all  make  her  so  happy  there  will  be  no  room  left 
in  her  heart  for  anything  but  peace  with  the  whole  world. 
Don't  wear  that  foreboding  face,  my  good  auntie  ;  all  will 
go  well.  I  feel  as  though  I  had  taken  a  new  lease  of  life 
and  joy,  this  morning,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  darken  my 
sunshine  by  the  smallest  cloud  ! " 

"  And  I  won't  !  "  said  Miss  Barstone,  with  some  of  his 
own  impetuosity.  "  Go  send  Magdalen  to  me  !  I  like 
Miss  Wayne  very  much  now,  but  I  intend  to  love  my  fav- 
orite nephew's  wife  with  my  whole  heart  ! " 

Magdalen  came,  blushing  and  smiling,  happy,  and 
maidenly,  and  gentle  ;  and  good  little  Miss  Barstone 
laughed  to  herself  at  the  notion  of  that  shy,  blushing  bride- 
elect  becoming  a  future  avenger. 


74  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

"George  was  right,"  she  thought,  as  she  kissed  her. 
*'  She  will  soon  forgot  all  her  past  wrongs  and  troubles 
when'  she  is  his  happy  wife." 

Which  conclusion  simply  went  to  prove  how  little  the 
simple-minded  old  maid  really  knew  of  the  blue-eyed,  fair- 
haired  girl  before  her. 

Dearly  as  Magdalen  loved  George  Barstone,  she  would 
have  given  him  up,  then  and  there,  with  Spartan  resolu- 
tion, if  the  choice  lay  between  him  and  her  pledged  faith  to 
her  dead  sister.  She  was  wrong,  and  absurd,  and  wicked, 
of  course  ;  but  she  was  only  a  headstrong  girl,  and  no  per- 
fect creature  by  any  means.  The  cruel  wrongs  of  her 
brother  and  sister  burned  de'ep  in  her  very  soul — too  deep 
for  any  length  of  time,  or  any  happiness,  however  perfect, 
to  efface. 

''  I  am  very,  very  glad,  my  dear  ! "  Miss  Barstone  said. 
"I  don't  think  my  boy  could  have  found  a  better  or 
prettier  wife  anywhere  than  my  golden-haired  Magda- 
len !  Don't  blush,  my  dear  ;  George  isn't  present,  and 
we  may  speak  the  truth  to  one  another.  Does  Fanny 
know  ?  " 

"  Not  yet,"  Magdalen  answered  ;  "  and  she  is  possessed 
by  a  devouring  curiosity,  I  am  sure.  She  will  not  be 
greatly  surprised,  I  fancy.  She  suspected  how  matters 
stood  before  I  did  myself." 

"  Poor  child  !  her  head  never  runs  on  anything  else  than 
lovers,  and  weddings,  and  new  dresses,  and  party-going  ! 
Inform  her  at  once,  my  dear.  I  know  she  is  undergoing 
agonies  of  suspense." 

So  Magdalen,  going  down  again,  and  finding  Miss 
Winters  roaming  alone  and  disconsolate  about  the  lower 
rooms,  put  her  arms  around  her  in  very  girlish  fashion, 
and  whispered  her  sweet  secret  in  her  ears. 

Fanny  gave  a  little  shriek  of  pure  ecstasy. 

"  Oh,  Magdalen  !  I'm  so  glad  !  I'm  so  glad  !  And 
you'll  have  me  for  first  bridesmaid — for,  of  course,  there 
must  be  half  a  dozen  at  least  !  And  you'll  wear  white 
silk,  and  Brussels  lace,  and  orange  blossoms,  and  the 
bridesmaids  shall  wear  blue  !  " 

"  What !     Blue  orange  blossoms  ! " 

"  Nonsense  !  No  ;  dresses.  Blue  becomes  me  better 
than  pink,  I  think  ;  through  I  like  pink  best.  And  Phil 
will  come  down,  of  course,  and  stand  up  with  George. 


ENGAGED.  75 

And  one  wedding  makes  many,  you  know  ;  and  who  can 
tell  but  it  may  eomc  my  turn  next  ?" 

And,  at  tlie"  bare  idea,  Miss  Winters  went  up  and  down, 
in  little  springs  of  joy,  on  her  chair. 

So  everybody  at  all  interested  in  the  matter  had  been 
told,  and  everybody,  strange  to  relate,  was  delighted.' 

George's  coarse  of  trne  love  seemed  in  a  fair  way  of  run- 
ning as  smooth  as  a  sunlit  lake — not  even  a  ripple  ot\  that 
usually  turbid  sea.  lie  wrote  to  his  cousin  Philip,  telling 
him  the  jubilant  tidings,  and  exhorting  him  to  "run 
down  and  be  best  man  at  the  wedding." 

Doctor  P.  Barstone  wrote  back,  by  return  mail,  his  rather 
cynical  corrgraitulations,  promising,  if  at  all  possible,  to  be 
at  Golden  Willows  on  the  grand  occasion,  and  inspect  the 
bride,  and  see  the  bridegroom  taking  his  *'  leap  in  the 
dark." 

Yes,  everybody  was  pleased,  except,  perhaps,  Mr.  Sam 
Goldham,  who  had  had  vague  ideas  lately  of  taking  Fanny 
Winters'  handsome  governess  to  liimself,  and  sundry  Mill- 
ford  young  ladies,  who  had  long  cast  the  eye  of  regard  on 
the  good-looking,  very-well-off  young  lawyer. 

But  these  exceptions  were  of  no  account,  and  Mr. 
George  Barstone  lived  by  day,  and  slumbered  by  night, 
up  in  the  seventh  heaven — ""^in  the  Fool's  Paradise,"  as 
his  sarcastic  medical  cousin  termed  it — higher,  indeed,  if 
there  be  any  higher  Elysium. 

"And  we  will  be  married  right  away  !"  he  said,  im- 
petuously. "  Where's  the  use  of  waiting  ?  You  have  no 
authorities  to  consult,  or  anything  of  the  sort,  and  the 
sooner  I'm  a  sensible,  responsible  marrieil  num  the  better 
Aunt  Lydia  will  be  pleased.  Let's  get  married  next 
month  and  be  a  comfortable  coujile,  like  Tim  Linken- 
water  and  little  Miss  La — what's  her  name  ?  " 

Of  course,  Magdalen  protested  vehemently,  quite 
shocked  at  such  indecorous  haste.  It  would  be  ridiculous, 
it  would  be  preposterous,  it  would  be  outrageous,  such 
wild  hurry  !  But  (Jeorge  was  set  upon  it,  and  not  to  bo 
talked  down. 

"  It's  very  hard  if  1  can't  have  my  way  before  marriage  !  " 
grumbled  Mr.  Barstone,  "  as  I  never  expect  to,  after.  I 
know  you'll  be  a  Xantippe,  Magdalen  (wasn't  tliat  her 
name  ?),  and  rule  the  roast  with  those  flashing  blue-gray 
eyes  of  yours.     You  can  engage  all  the   dressmakers  in 


76  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

Millford,  and  send  for  two  or  three  bales  of  dry  goods  to 

New  York,  and  be  all  ready  in  half  the  time.  It's  absurd, 
the  amount  of  needlework  women  require  !  As  if  the 
state  of  matrimony  were  in  another  hemisphere,  where  mil- 
liners were  unheard  of  and  dry  goods  stores  unknown." 

Thus  beset,  a  compromise  was  efEected  with  difficulty, 
and  the  last  week  of  October  fixed  for  the  wedding.  The 
brief  interim,  of  course,  was  all  too  short  for  the  bridal 
preparations,  and  Fanny's  lessons  Avere  entirely  given  up, 
to  that  young  lady's  unbounded  delight.  Life  was  all  a 
holiday  now,  with  nothing  to  do,  those  long  summer  days, 
but  revel  in  silks  and  laces  and  muslins,  spending  the 
shining  hours  in  long,  delightful  confabulations  with 
vouug  persons  in  the  dressmaking  line.  And  Phil  was 
coming — ecstatic  thought— to  be  groomsman,  and  who 
could  tell  what  might  come  of  it  ?  Phil  might  hanker 
after  the  joys  of  married  life,  when  he  once  saw  George 
fairly  embarked  on  that  sunlit  ocean  of  delights — and  who 
more  likely  to  be  the  chosen  bride  than  Miss  Winters  her- 
self ?^' 

"  And  I  do  like  Phil,  Magdalen,"  admitted  Fanny  to 
the  bride-elect.  "  I  always  liked  him  better  than  George  ! 
He  doesji't  know  it,  of  course,  and  I  wouldn't  have  him 
suspect  it  for  the  world  !  How  nice  it  would  be,  if  you 
were  married  to  George,  and  I  to  Phil,  and  we  were  all 
living  together  !     Wouldn't  it  now  ?  " 

Magdalen  smiled  quietly.  She  was  happy— very,  very 
happy,  but  very  undemonstrative  in  her  happiness.  She 
loved  this  big,  gentle-hearted,  boisterous  George  Barstone 
deeply  and  dearly.  She  was  grateful  to  him  for  all  his 
goodness  to  her  and  all  his  trust  in  her,  and  she  was 
earnestly  and  unspeakably  thankful  for  this  great  and 
blessed  change  in  her  life.  It  was  so  sweet  to  be  loved, 
and  trusted,  and  cherished,  and  protected  ;  to  feel  that 
there  were  those  in  the  world  who  would  think  it  a 
drearier  place  without. her;  and  a  home  that  would  be 
desolate,  and  hearts  that  would  be  heavy,  if  she  were 
lost.  It  was  unutterably  sweet  to  know  this — how  sweet 
none  can  tell  but  those  who  have  been  homeless  and 
hardly  treated  in  the  houses  of  strangers. 

September  came,  w^hilst  yet  the  wedding  preparations 
went  briskly  on.  Carpenters  were  at  work  at  the  house, 
fitting  up  a  range  of  upper  chambers  for  Mr.  and  Mrs. 


ENGAGED.  77 

Barstone's  dressing-room,  bedroom  and  parlor,  en  suite  ; 
seamstresses  sat  and  sewed,  in  the  bland  sunshine,  on 
silks  stiff  enough  to  stand  alone  for  very  richness,  on 
gauzy  muslins  and  organdies,  fit  for  the  queen  of  tho 
fairies,  and  on  crepe  and  lace  draperies,  in  which  the 
Maid  of  the  Mist  might  have  robed  herself  ;  and  Fanny 
flitted  up-stairs  and  down-stairs  the  bright  day  long,  crazy 
with  delight  ;  and  Magduleu,  in  the  depth  of  her  new 
bliss,  took  a  brighter  and  more  radiant  beauty  than  ever, 
and  her  happy  smiles  chased  over  her  fair  face  in  one 
long  dream  of  Joy. 

The  darkness  of  the  past  was  for  the  time  forgotten  ; 
the  shadow  of  Maurice  Langley's  guilt  never  came  to 
darken  the  glory  of  the  dazzling  present. 

And  Mr.  George  Barstone— .  But  the  English  lan- 
guage is  poor  and  weak  to  describe  that  young  lawyer's 
entranced  state.  The  dusty  earth  was  as  impalpable  air 
under  his  boots,  the  world  was  Eden,  and  all  the  men 
and  women  in  it  Avingless  angels,  and  he  himself  the  most 
blest  and  beatified  of  mankind. 

The  second  week  of  September  Magdalen,  in  the  midst 
of  all  fuss  and  bustle,  snatched  a  few  days,  and  went  on  a 
visit  to  Miss  Nurse  Rachel  and  little  Laura. 

''You  might  fetch  them  here  to  live,  you  know,  Mag- 
dalen, "  Mr.  Barstone  said,  before  her  departure.  "  Tiiere 
is  plenty  of  room  for  everybody  ;  and  if  there  isn't,  we'll 
make  it.  Add  a  wing  here  and  a  turret  there,  like  those 
old  castles  wo  read  about  in  story-books,  and  all  of  us 
settle  down  sociably  together.  " 

Magdalen  laughed  at  the  notion  of  their  pretty  cottage, 
with  wings  and  turrets  tagged  on. 

"  My  old  nurse  is  well  and  comfortable  where  she  is, 
George,  "  she  said.  "  In  fact,  I  don't  think  she  would  be 
ever  as  happy  elsewhere  as  in  the  old  homestead — so  we 
won't  remove  her.  She  can  come  witli  little  Laura,  and 
make  us  a  visit  once  in  a  while,  when — " 

A  pause  and  a  bright  blush. 

"  When  we're  married,  "  said  Mr.  Barstone,  helping  her 
out.  "  Just  as  you  please,  Magdalen — only  don't  stay 
too  long  when  you  get  there,  for  the  world  is  a  howling 
wilderness  without  you,  you  know." 

The  autumn  leaves  were  whirling  in  golden  and  scarlet 
drifts,  and  the  yellow  October  sunshine  was  sifting  its 


78  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

long,  sharp  lances  through  the  gaunt  maples,  as  Magdalen 
walked  up  the  familiar  road,  in  the  early  afternoon. 
Well-known  faces  peeped  from  doors  and  windows  at  the 
stately  young  lady,  so  tall  and  stylish  now  that  she  had 
left  off  mourning,  and  opined  that  Magdalen  Allward  was 
growing  handsomer  every  day. 

Old  Nurse  Rachel  sat  on  the  kitchen  door-step,  knit- 
ting in  the  bland  afternoon  sunshine,  with  little  Laura 
playing  with  the  bright,  fallen  leaves.  Little  Laura  was 
the  most  charming  of  all  charming  little  fairies — with  the 
brightest  eyes  that  ever  flashed  back  sunlight,  and  showers 
of  dancing  flaxen  curls.  She  had  sat  there,  in  the  genial 
noontime,  when  Magdalen  came  round  the  angle  of  the 
house,  and  stood — a  smiling  apparition — before  them. 

"  Magdalen  ! "  Nurse  Rachel  cried,  with  a  little  scream 
of  joyful  surprise.     "  Oh,  my  darling,  is  this  really  you  ?" 

"It  really  is,  nursey,"  thegirlsaid,  kissingthe  wrinkled 
cheek.  "  You  did  not  expect  me,  did  yon  ?  And  it's 
very  nice  to  get  an  agreeable  surprise,  isn't  it  ?  Oh,  you 
pet,  what  a  bright  little  witch  you  are  growing  !  " 

She  snatched  up  Laura,  and  covered  the  pretty  baby 
face  with  kisses. 

"  My  pet  !  my  pet !  my  darling  !  You  are  glad  to  see 
auntie,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Laura,  with  a  little  nod,  "  real  glad  !  Did 
you  fetch  a  doll  that  opens  and  shuts  its  eyes  this  time, 
auntie  ?  Your  letter  said  so,  you  know — 'cause  nurse 
read  it  to  me." 

"  Yes,  I  brought  it,  Laura,  and  lots  and  lots  more 
things,  ever  so  pretty.  Wait  until  auntie's  trunk  comes 
up,  and  you  shall  see.  Is  Laura  a  pretty  good  girl, 
nurse  ?" 

"  Pretty  good — only  too  fond  of  molasses  taffy  and  sit- 
ting up  after  candle-light.  Come  in,  Magdalen,  and  take 
off  your  things.  Oh,  what  a  pleasant  surprise  this  is  I 
Are  you  going  to  make  us  a  nice,  long  visit  this  time  ?" 

"  Only  three  days,  nursey.  They  can't  spare  me  at 
Golden  Willows." 

The  bright  blue  eyes  sparkled  with  laughing  mischief 
as  they  met  old  Rachel's.  Sitting  down  by  the  kitchen 
table,  the  girl  folded  her  gloved  hands  thereon,  and  sat 
looking  at  her  old  nurse  with  a  dimpled,  roguish  face. 

**  Can't  they,  indeed  ?    They  are  very  fond  of  you  ?'' 


ENGAGED.  »9 

**  Very  fond  ;  uncommonly  fond  ;  fonder  than  you  are, 
Nurse  Rachel." 

*'  Ah,  I  don't  believe  that  ;  tliey  could  not  be,  my  pet. 
Ah,  you — you  like  them,  too,  Magdalen  ;  but  I  know  you 
do.'' 

"Very  much,  very  much — so  much  that  I  am  going 
to " 

She  broke  off,  the  smiles,  and  dimples,  and  rosy  glows 
chasing  each  other  over  her  bright,  young  face. 

"  To  what,  my  dear  ?  " 

"Marry  one  of  them,  nursey." 

"My  child  !" 

Magdalen  came  over  and  knelt  down  before  her  old 
nurse,  putting  her  arms  around  her. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  nnrsey  ;  your  child  is  going  to  be  mar- 
ried. The  fairy  prince  you  have  been  promising  so  long 
has  arrived  at  last.  Not  that  he  looks  so  much  like  one, 
you  know,"  said  Magdalen  laughing. 

"  Oh,  my  child  !  my  child  ! "  old  Rachel  cried,  breath- 
lessly ;  "this  is  a  surprise  !  Who  is  he  ?  What  is  his 
name  ?  " 

"  He  is  George  Barstone — Miss  Barstone's  nephew — 
neither  wonderfully  rich  nor  wonderfully  handsome,  both 
of  which  the  fairy  prince  was  to  be,  but  the  best  and  dear- 
est fellow  in  the  world  wide,  and  I  love  him  with  all  my 
heart ! " 

Her  voice  faltered,  her  eyes  filled,  and  her  face  drooped 
forward  and  hid  itself  on  her  nurse's  shoulder. 

"  My  child  !  my  child  !  "  It  was  all  Rachel  could  say, 
as  she  patted  ceaselessly  the  bright  head.  "  My  own  little 
Magdalen  ! " 

"  And  I'm  going  to  be  very  happy,  nurse — happy  as 
the  days  are  long — and  you  and  Mistress  Laura,  here,  are 
to  come  twice  or  throe  times  a  year  and  make  me  a  long 
visit ;  and  we're  all  going  to  be  just  the  gayest,  merriest 
people  the  big  sun  shines  on  !     Aren't  we,  Laura  ?  " 

She  snatched  up  the  little  one  and  went  waltzing  round 
and  round  the  room  like  a  giddy  school  girl  just  let  loose. 

"Thank  God!"  old  Rachel  said,  fervently,  "thank 
God,  my  dear,  that  you  are  going  to  be  at -peace  at  last ! 
Oh,  my  child,  I  have  been  troubled  about  you,  troubled 
more  than  I  can  tell,  when  I  thought  of  your  bitter  thirst 
for  vengeance  against  Maurice  Langley  ;  but  now  I  am. 


80  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

content.     You  will  have  a  happy  home,  a  loving  husband 

no  more   drudgery,  no   more  battling  with    the   hard 

world^ — and  you  will  be  at  peace  and  forget  him." 

"  Forget  him  ! ''  Magdalen's  face  changed,  as  you  have 
seen  a  summer  sky  change,  all  in  a  moment.  She  set  the 
child  down  and  stood  before  her  nnrse  with  a  dark  frown, 
marring  all  her  fair,  girlish  beauty.  "  Forget  him — for- 
get Maurice  Langley — forget  the  man  wlio  murdered  my 
father  and  sister  !  Oh,  Nurse  Rachel,  you  have  known 
me  from  my  babyhood,  but  you  know  me  very  little  if  you 
think  I  ever  can  forget  that  man." 

"Then  you  still — "     The  old  woman  paused,  dismayed. 

**  Hate  him  !  hate  him  !  hate  him  !  Oh,  how  I  do  hate 
that  man  !  Look  here,  nurse,  I  love  George  Barstone 
with  all  my  heart,  dearer  than  my  own  life,  and  there 
could  be  no  bitterer  sorrow  for  me,  here  below,  than  to 
lose  him,  my  plighted  husband  ;  but  I  would  give  him  up 
to-morrow,  freely  and  unhesitatingly,  for  the  chance  of 
being  revenged  on  Maurice  Langley  !  " 

Nurse  Rachel  sat  in  dumb  consternation ;  Magdalen 
trod  the  floor  after  her  old  excited  manner,  with  pale  face 
and  flashing  eyes. 

There  seemed  a  horrible,  unnatural  discrepancy  between 
her  fair,  girlish,  youthful  beauty  and  the  fierce,  undying 
thirst  for  revenge. 

"  I  will  never  forgive  him.  I  will  never  forget  while 
life  beats  here  ! "  striking  lightly  on  her  breast.  "  Never, 
Rachel,  never  !  I  have  told  George  Barstone  my  story. 
I  have  told  him  my  name.  I  have  told  him  of  the  pur- 
pose to  which  my  life  is  vowed.  Whatever  happens  in  the 
future  he  shall  not  say  I  deceived  him.  He  loves  me  well 
enough  to  marry  me,  knowing  all,  and  please  God,  I  will 
make  him  a  true  and  faithful  and  loving  wife  ;  but  I  will 
not  forego  my  vow.     Never  !  never  ! " 

*'  And  you  have  not  heard " 

"  I  have  not  heard — no — and  I  may  never  hear.  _  I  may 
have  sat  beside  him — I  may  yet.  I  may  hold  his  hand 
and  look  in  his  face,  and  yet  not  know  him — that  is  the 
thought  that  drives  me  to  despair.  My  poor,  poor  Laura  ! 
You  lie  in  your  unavenged  grave  a  long  time  ! "  Her 
eyes  filled  with  passionate  tears — hot  and  bitter — and  she 
impatiently  dashed  them  away.  '*  I  am  almost  afraid  of 
mj  new  happiness,  Rachel,  when  I  think  it  maj  make  ma 


ENGAGED.  11 

less  eager  to  find  Maurice  Langley.  It  seems  ingratitude 
to  the  dead,  monstrous  and  unnatural  after  all  their  misery, 
for  me  to  be  so  hopeful  and  light-hearted.  But  I'm  only 
a  girl,  you  know,  and  I  can't  help  it." 

She  took  Laura  in  her  arms  again — that  cliubb}--  little 
damsel  staring  at  this  incomprehensible  talk  with  wide 
open  blue  eyes  of  wonder. 

"  My  pretty  rose-cheeked  baby,  do  yon  think  auntie  has 
taken  leave  of  her  senses  ?  Never  mind,  nurse  shall  got 
us  some  tea,  and  we  won't  talk  any  more  about  these  dis- 
agreeable things.  We  are  going  to  be  just  as  blithe  as  the 
birds  for  the  next  three  days,  little  Laura." 

And  tiie  girl  kept  her  word.  No  blither  creature  ever 
lived  on  earth  than  Magdalen,  when  the  great  trouble  of 
her  life  could  be  shut  down  deep  in  her  heart — so  deep 
that  no  shadow  rose  to  the  surface.  She  rambled  with 
little  Liiura  over  hills  and  fields,  and  through  the  woods  ; 
she  fed  the  chickens  and  dressed  her  dolls,  and  made  up 
astonishing  little  romances  for  her  delectation,  and  was 
almost  as  merry  and  as  much  of  a  child  as  Laura  herself. 

And  so  tlie  three  days'  grace  expired,  and  Magdalen  was 
going  home — yes,  Golden  Willows  was  home  now — never 
to  come  back  to  the  old  homestead  as  Magdalen  Allward. 

''You  will  come  and  see  me  married,  Rachel?"  she 
said,  wistfully,  holding  out  her  hand,  to  say  good-by. 

"I  don't  know,  my  dear,  it's  a  long  way,  and  I'm  not 
used  to  traveling.  Then  here  is  little  Laura.  Oh,  1  dou'fc 
know." 

"  But  I  should  like  it  so  much,  Rachel." 

Still  Rachel  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't  know,  my  dear.  I  should  like  it  myself,  but 
I  can't  promise.  Still  I'll  try.  The  last  Thursday  in 
October,  you  say  ?  " 

''  Yes,  do  try  !  It  will  make  me  doubly  happy.  Good- 
by,  nursey — good-by,  Laura.  Auntie  will  fetch  her  little 
girl  something  wonderfully  handsome  next  time." 

So  Magdalen  departed,  and  went  back  to  her  impatient 
lover — to  her  plighted  husband.  Went  back  to  find 
changes,  in  her  brief  absence,  which  were  destined  to  post- 
pone her  marriagt 


82  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 


CHAPTER  XL 

FREE  FROM  SING  SING. 

Miss  Barstone  was  very  ill — so  ill  that  she  lay  in  the 
shadow  of  the  Valley  of  Death — and  the  lamp  burned, 
md  patient  watchers  sat  by  the  bedside  the  weary  night 
through.  Footfalls  were  hushed,  voices  were  lowered, 
and  a  fearful  awe  sat  on  every  face,  as  if  their  mortal  eyes 
could  see  the  dread  death  angel  hovering  on  their  threshold. 

Magdalen  took  her  place  among  the  rest,  and  was  the 
most  indefatigable  and  tender  nurse  the  poor  old  maid 
had.  Long,  weary  vigils  she  kept  during  the  days  and 
nights  that  were  to  have  been  filled  with  bridal  prepara- 
tions, until  her  cheek  grew  pale  and  her  eyes  dim  in  the 
dusk  of  the  sick  chamber. 

The  snowy  robes  of  glistening  silk,  and  airy  muslin, 
and  misty  lace,  were  put  away  to  a  more  propitious  season  ; 
and  October  came,  and  the  wedding  day  went,  and  Mag- 
dalen was  unwedded.  November,  with  its  sad,  short  days 
and  lamentable  winds,  passed  drearily  away  before  the 
turning  point  of  the  weary  illness  came,  and  Miss  Bar- 
stone  began  slowly  to  recover. 

''  It  is  very  hard  on  you,  my  poor  boy,"  Aunt  Lydia 
said,  one  evening,  looking  up  in  George's  face,  which,  like 
the  rest,  had  grown  somewhat  thin  and  careworn  this  try- 
ing season  ;  "  but  you  need  not  postpone  your  wedding 
much  longer,  thank  heaven  !  Let  me  see — this  is  Decem- 
ber ;  suppose  you  are  married  on  New  Year's  Day  ?  " 

Of  course  Mr.  Barstone  was  only  too  transported,  to  say 
yes,  and  of  course  he  said  so. 

*'  Magdalen  is  the  best  of  nurses  and  the  dearest  of 
girls,"  continued  Aunt  Lydia.  "  I'm  certain  if  your 
future  is  not  a  happy  one,  it  will  not  be  her  fault." 

Magdalen  opened  the  door  softly  as  she  spoke,  and 
came  in. 

"Is  she  asleep,  George  ?  Shall  Fanny  come  and  take 
your  place  ?     You  must  be  worn  out." 

**  Come  here,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Barstone.  "  I  am  not 
asleep.  Let  me  look  at  you.  Ah,  yes  !  you  have  grown 
paler  and  thinner  with  these  long  night  watches,  as  well 


FREE  FROM  SING  SING.  83 

as  the  rest.  You  have  been  very  good  to  poor  old  Aunt 
Lvdia,  and  yonr  happiness  slmll  not  be  postponed  an  lioiir 
longer  than  is  possible.  New  Year's  is  very  near  now  ;  you 
must  make  this  impatient  boy  the  happiest  of  husbands  on 
New  Year's  Day." 

George  looked  very  pleadingly,  Magdalen  blushed, 
limiled  and  shyly  held  out  her  hand. 

*'  He  has  been  very  good,  very  patient,"  said  Aunt 
Lydia,  ''and  he  lias  earned  his  sugar  plums,  and  shall  have 
them.  And  now.  my  children,  if  you  will  leave  me,  I  will 
try  and  sleep.  Don't  send  Fanny  up  just  yet,  Magdalen  ; 
wait  half  an  hour." 

The  lovers  departed,  and  went  down-stairs.  George's 
supper  awaited  him  in  the  dining-room.  The  girls  had 
had  theirs  while  he  kept  watch  in  the  sick-room. 

**  I  believe  I'll  take  a  walk  in  the  garden  while  you  eat 
your  supper,  George,"  Magdalen  said.  **The  night  is 
lovely,  and  the  air  of  the  house  oppressive." 

•'*  And  you  are  as  pale  as  a  spirit,  my  darling,"  George 
answered,  kissing  the  white  cheek.  "Go  and  see  if  this 
icy  December  wind  will  not  bring  back  your  lost  roses." 

"They  never  were  very  bright,"  Magdalen  said,  laugh- 
ingly, as  she  threw  a  shawl  carelessly  over  her  head  and 
went  out. 

The  winter  night  was  indescribably  bright  and  beautiful. 
Up  in  a  sky  of  cloudless  blue  sailed  the  Christmas  moon, 
crystal  clear,  silver  bright,  with  countless  sparkling,  frosty 
stars.  No  wind  stirred  the  leafless  trees,  and  the  snowy 
ground  glittered  and  scintillated  and  flashed  back  the 
shimmering  luster  above. 

"  And,  oh,  how  lovely  it  all  is  !  "  cried  Magdalen,  draw- 
ing a  long  free  breath.  "Sweet  and  serene  as  Eden  it- 
self !     A  fairy  earth  under  a  magic  sky  !  " 

She  ran  down  the  steps  and  entered  the  willow  walk. 
As  she  did  so  the  gate  latch  sharply  clicked.  She  glanced 
over  her  shoulder  and  saw  a  man  come  in.  Magdalen 
paused. 

The  man  paused,  too,  at  the  gate  and  surveyed  the 
lighted  front  of  the  house  with  a  strange,  irresolute, 
hesitating  manner.  Then  he  walked  up  the  path,  slowly 
and  hesitatingly,  and  stopping  often. 

"  What  can  that  man  want  ? "  thought  Magdalen. 
**  E[    '  cts  suspiciously.     I'll  speak  to  him." 


84  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

Quite  fearless  for  herself,  the  young  girl  stepped  out 
from  the  bhick  shadow  of  the  trees  and  stood  clearly  re- 
vealed in  the  moonlight. 

The  man  saw  her  and  advanced  at  once.  As  he  drew 
near  Magdalen  saw  he  was  undersized,  and  slender,  and 
boyish,  and  shabby.  For  his  face,  his  coat  collar  was  so 
turned  up  and  his  cloth  cap  so  pulled  down  that  it  was 
effectually  concealed. 

"  This  place  is  Golden  Willows  ? "  the  suspicious 
stranger  began,  inquiringly,  touching  his  cap  to  the  lady 
with  the  shawl  over  her  head. 

Magdalen  gave  a  wild  start.  That  voice  !  Surely  she 
knew  that  voice  ! 

"Yes,"  she  said,  her  eyes  dilating,  "this  is  Goldeu 
Willows." 

"  And  there  is  a  young  lady — a  governess — a  Miss  Wayne 
living  here  ?" 

"  I  am  the  governess,"  Magdalen  said,  in  a  hushed, 
fearful  voice,  "  and  you  are " 

"Look!" 

He  lifted  the  cloth  cap,  turned  down  the  coat  collar, 
and  displayed  a  boyish  face  in  the  wan  moonlight,  hag- 
gard and  hollow-eyed,  but  handsome  still. 

Magdalen  gave  a  great  cry.  and  a  recoil. 

"  Willie  !  Willie  !  my  brother  !  " 

And  then  the  shabby  and  suspicious  stranger  was  caught 
in  Miss  Wayne's  arms,  in  a  clasp  as  strong  and  lasting  as 
the  love  she  bore  him. 

"  Willie  !  Willie  !  Willie  !  " 

It  was  all  she  could  cry  between  her  raining  tears  and 
kisses,  holding  him  as  if  she  would  never  let  him  go. 

Willie  Allward  rather  endured  than  returned  his  sister's 
caresses.  His  sharp  and  haggard  face  looked  sullen  and 
overcast,  even  in  this  first  moment  of  meeting,  after  more 
than  four  years. 

"  Oh,  Willie  !  what  a  surprise  this  is  !  what  a  surprise 
this  is  !  To  think  that  I  should  ever  see  you  again,  my 
darling,  darling  brother  !  " 

"Then  you  are  glad  to  see  me,  Magdalen,"  said  the 
young  fellow,  kissing  her  at  last.  "  The  old  woman  said 
you  would  be,  but  I'll  be  blowed  if  I  believed  her  ! " 

"  The  old  woman  !  Do  you  mean  Rachel  ?  Have  you 
been  home  ?  " 


FREE  PROM  SING  SING.  85 

"  To  be  sure  I  have  !  How  else  should  I  know  where 
to  find  you  ?  And  so  this  is  your  home  now  ?  "  jerking 
his  thumb  over  his  shoulder  toward  the  house,  "and 
you're  a  governess,  Mag  ?     How  do  you  like  it  ?  " 

*'  Very  well." 

"  They're  good  to  you,  are  they  ?  " 

**  Very  good,  Willie." 

**  And  you're  going  to  be  married,  old  Rachel  says.  It 
seems  funny  !  Little  Magdalen  going  to  be  married  ! 
What's  this  the  chap's  name  is  ?" 

*'  George  Barstone — the  best  man  I  ever  knew,  Willie." 

**0h  !  IS  he  ?  I'm  glad  to  hear  that,  because  I  thought 
you  might  be  making  a  botch  of  it,  like  Laura,"  Willie 
Allward  said,  with  a  harsh,  strident  laugh.  *'  Pretty  af- 
fair, that,  wasn't  it  ?  She's  dead  and  buried  now,  and  the 
little  one  is  her  very  image — not  the  least  like  its  hand- 
some papa  ! " 

'<  Willie  !  Willie  !  how  bitterly  you  talk  !  how  strangely 
you  have  changed  ! " 

"  For  the  bettor,  hey  ?  Where's  the  Willie  in  the 
varnished  boots,  and  superfine  dress-coats,  and  gold  studs, 
and  No.  7  French  kids,  you  used  to  know,  I  wonder  ? 
This  fellow  here,"  looking  down  at  himself,  "  in  the  rough 
brogans,  and  threadbare  pants,  and  greasy,  out-at-elbows 
coat,  isn't  much  like  him,  is  he  ?  But,  then,  we  don't 
come  home  from  the  college  I  have  just  graduated  at 
in  the  height  of  the  style,"  he  laughed — a  sharp,  mirthless 
laugh,  that  made  Magdalen  shiver. 

"  It's  only  one  more  item  down  in  the  long  account  I've 
got  to  settle  with  my  friend  Maurice  Langley,  when  I 
meet  him.  Don't  wear  that  wliite,  scared  face,  my  lassie. 
We  won't  talk  about  it,  if  you  like.  Let's  look  at  you. 
Why,  you've  grown  a  handsome  girl,  Alagdalen — hand- 
somer than  ever  Laura  was,  though  you're  like  her,  too." 

Magdalen  i)ut  her  arm  through  her  brother's,  ani  drew 
him  into  the  Willow  Walk. 

"  Come  this  way,  Willie  ;  I  don't  want  any  one  to  see 
ns,  and  you  would  hardly  care  to  come  in,  I  suppose  ?" 
hesitatingly,  looking  at  him. 

*'  Hardly,  in  this  trim.  Don't  be  afraid  of  hurting  my 
feelings  by  plain  speaking,  my  dear  girl.  I  have  not  been 
used  to  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know,  for  the  past  four 
years.     I  didn't  want  to  go  in,  and  I  didn't  mean  to  dis- 


86  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

grace  yon.  As  you  are  the  only  member  of  the  family  that 
has  not  turned  out  rather  disreputably,  the  least  I  can  do 
do  is  to  let  you  keep  up  the  family  credit.  In  fact,  I  was 
rather  doubtful  about  coming  near  you  at  all,  but  the  old 
dame  insisted  on  it  so  strongly,  and  as  I  had  a  hankering 
that  way  myself " 

"  Willie  !  "  Magdalen  broke  out  passionately,  "  do  yo 
think  it  necessary  to   apologize  to    me  for   coming  to  si 
me  ?    If  you  had  not,  I  should  never  have  forgiven  you 
Are  we  not  brother  and  sister?     Do  we  not  stand  alone  it 
the  world  now  ?     Are  we  not  bound  together  by  one  com- 
mon cause?     It  would  have  been  a  worse  deed — a  baser 
and  more  cruel  act — than  any  you  have  yet  committed, 
if  you  had  not  come  to  see  me  now." 

The  lad  looked  at  her,  astonished  at  her  unlooked-for 
welcome  outburst. 

''  By  George  !  how  you  go  it  !  Well,  as  you  look  at  it 
in  that  liglit,  I'm  glad  myself  I've  come.  But  some  girls, 
you  know,  Magdalen,  respectable  themselves,  and  going 
to  be  married  to  a  respectable  man,  wouldn't  exactly  care 
to  have  a  convicted  forger,  who  has  just  served  out  his 
four  years  at  Sing  Sing,  call  upon  them,  even  though  that 
convicted  forger  "chanced  to  be  their  brother." 

"  Then  I'm  not  one  of  those  respectable  girls,"  said 
Magdalen,  shortly.  "  Don't  let  us  waste  time  bandying 
words,  for  I  cannot  stay  out  long  without  being  missed. 
What  are  you  going  to  do  now  ?" 

"For  a  living  do  you  mean!  Sweep  crossings  carry 
a  hod,  beg,  borrow,  steal,  so  that  I  can  get  enough 
to  hold  soul  and  body  together.  No,  by  the  bye,  not 
steal ;  it  won't  do  to  get  in  the  stone  jug  again.  Oh,  I'll 
do,  never  fear  !  " 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  To  New  York — to  hunt  up  a  friend  of  mine  there." 

"•  Maurice  Langley,  do  you  mean  ?" 

''Precisely — Mr.  Maurice  Langley.  I've  a  score  to 
settle  with  "'that  gentleman — a  long-standing  debt,  with 
compound  interest.  My  conscience  won't  be  easy  until  I 
pay  it." 

"  WilUe,"  Magdalen  said,  looking  earnestly,  ''what  are 
you  going  to  do  ?  " 

'*  Settle  old  scores,  my  girl — deep  and  deadly  scores  ! 
No,  no,  Magdalen!"  laughing  harshly  at  the  colorless 
face,  "  not  commit  a  murder.    I  won't  stab,  or  shoot,  or 


'  FREE  FROM  SING  SING.  87 

poison  Manrice  Langley — that's  a  hanging  matter,  you  see 
—I'll  only  put  him  where  I  came  from — Sing  tSing,  and 
hard  labor  for  the  best  years  of  liis  natural  life  ! " 

Some  of  the  fierce  fire,  smoldering  duskily  in  the  re- 
turned convict's  eyes,  lighted  up  suddenly  those  of  Mag- 
dalen. 

*'  Willie,  can  yon  do  it  ?    Can  you  ?  " 

"  I  can,  and  I  will  !  Don't  you  be  afraid,  Magdalen — 
I'll  make  Maurice  Langley  curse  the  day  he  ever  met  me 
as  bitterly  as  he  has  made  me  curse  it !  I'll  find  him  if 
he's  above  ground — if  the  devil  has  not  been  before  me 
and  come  for  his  own  !  " 

"That's  my  brave  brother  !  Oh,  if  I  were  only  a  man  ! 
I  would  leave  all,  and  go  with  you,  heart  and  soul,  this 
moment !  I  will  never  rest  on  the  same  earth  with 
Laura's  destroyer  !" 

*'  Hallo  !  "  cried  Willie,  astonished  ;  "  that's  how  you 
feel,  is  it  ?  Don't  you  be  afraid  of  my  letting  him  escape. 
The  fox  runs  long,  but  is  caught  by  the  tail  at  last.  I'll 
find  him,  never  fear — let  him  hide  where  he  may  choose. 
Iwonld  know  Manrice  Langley's  hide  on  a  bush.  Oh, 
my  little  girl.  State  Prison  for  a  chap  to  finish  his  educa- 
tion. I  went  in  a  lamb,  comparatively  speaking,  and  I 
have  come  out  a  tiger  ;  but  that's  enough  about  it.  I 
don't  want  to  make  a  tigress  of  you,  and  I  won't  keep  you 
here  in  the  cold  any  longer.  I've  seen  you  and  that's 
enough — you're  well  and  happy  and  I'm  glad  of  it.  Be  a 
good  woman,  Magdalen.  If  you  can,  and  make  your  hus- 
band happy,  and  leave  Maurice  Langley  and  plotting  and 
vengeance  to  me." 

"  I'll  aid  you  if  I  ever  have  the  power,"  said  Magdalen, 
resolutely  ;  ''and,  as  a  beginning,  you  must  let  me  keep 
you  in  funds.  You  can't  sweep  crossings  or  carry  hods, 
and  you  know  it.  You  have  no  one  to  borrow  of  but  me. 
Here  is  my  purse — there  are  fifty  dollars — enough  for 
this  month.  When  you  get  to  Nev,'  York,  write  to  me — 
I  will  send  you  more — or  no — write  to  Rachel — your  letters 
can  come  under  cover  from  her,  Mr.  Barstone  is  very, 
very  kind  and  good  ;  but  just  because  he  is  so  kind  and 
good  it  hurts  him  to  think  any  one  belonging  to  me  should 
be  otherwise.  The  less  he  hears  of  my  family  affairs,  the 
happier  he  will  feel,  and  this  sort  of  concealment  does 
him  no  injury,  yon  understand  ?" 

<<  All  right,"  said  Willie,  boyishly,  pocketing  the  purse. 


88  MAGDx\LEN'S  VOW. 

"And  now,  good-by  Magdalen.  You  look  half  frozen. 
Thousand  thanks  for  the  money,  and  a  merry  Ohristmas 
to  you,  and  a  happy  New  Year,  and  many  of '  em.  Shake 
hands." 

"  You  will  write  very  soon,  Willie,  and  very  often  ? 
You  know  liow  anxious  I  shall  be." 

*'Yes,  I'll  write.  Don't  you  tell  Mr.  Barstohe — isn't 
that  the  name  ?  about  this  visit.  It  will  be  of  no  use. 
The  less  said  about  me  the  better.  I'm  going  to  take 
some  other  name  and  disguise  myself  with  whiskers  and 
wig,  and  begin  my  search  for  Langley  at  once.  If  he  is 
alive,  he  is  in  New  York,  and  if  he's  in  New  York,  I'll 
find  him.     Good-by." 

"  Good-by,"  Magdalen  said. 

And  then,  giving  her  hand  a  parting  wring,  Willie 
Allward  slouched  his  cap  over  his  eyes,  turned  up  his 
collar,  plunged  down  the  Willow  Walk  and  was  gone. 

Magdalen  stood  still  where  he  had  left  her,  listening  to 
his  footsteps  ringing  sharply  on  the  frozen  ground,  and 
feeling  as  tnough  she  were  in  a  dream. 

The  icy  wind,  as  the  night  wore  on,  roused  her  to  the 
consciousness  that  she  had  been  a  long  time  out,  and  that 
they  would  wonder  what  detained  her. 

Slowly  she  turned  toward  the  house.  As  she  emerged 
from  the  trees  and  looked  up  at  the  windows,  she  saw 
Fanny  standing  in  the  bedroom  looking  out.  There  was 
no  light  in  her  chamber  and  Magdalen  saw  her  distinctly. 

"  And  she  could  see  me  by  this  moonlight,"  Magdalen 
thought,  "if  she  were  up  there.  I  hope  she  has  not 
seen  Willie." 

But  Fanny  had  seen  Willie  and  was  in  a  state  of  won- 
derment and  shocked  surprise  not  to  be  described. 

She  had  seen  the  first  meeting  of  brother  and  sister — 
seen  Magdalen  fall  upon  the  neck  of  the  unknown  man 
and  kiss  him  over  and  over,  and  over  again. 

"  G-o-o-o-o-o-d  gracious  !  "  cried  Miss  Winters,  rnentally 
prolonging  the  first  word  of  ejaculation  indefinitely  in 
her  amazement ;  "  can  I  believe  my  eyes  ?  Yes,  I  can  ! 
and  there's  Magdalen  Wayne  kissing  and  hugging  a  strange 
man  down  under  the  trees,  and  George  taking  his  supper 
in  the  dining-room.  It  isn't  George — that's  certain — and 
I  should  think  Magdalen  hadn't  ought  to  kiss  any  other 
man.     When  a  person's  engaged  to  a  person,"  mused    the 


FREE  FROM  SING  SIKG.  W 

young  lady,  vagnely,  ''  I  should  think  they  hadn't  ought 
to  kiss  any  other  person.  Aunt  T^ydia  is  forever  holding 
Magdalen  up  as  a  ourniug  and  shining  light  for  me  to  im- 
itate, and  she  says  I'm  frivolous,  hut  1  don't  believe  I 
would  go  and  act  like  that.  If  I  was  going  to  be  married 
to  Phil,  in  a  montli,  I'm  very  certain  I  wouldn't  meet 
other  men  in  the  grounds,  by  night  and  and  by  stealth, 
and  kiss  them,"  concluded  Fanny,  with  an  evident  sense 
of  injury. 

The  young  lady  lingered  by  the  window  after  Magdalen 
and  the  strange  mnn  had  disappeared  down  the  Willow 
Walk,  gazing  pensively  at  the  moonlight,  and  wait- 
ing. 

She  was  kept  waiting  half  an  hour,  and  was  beginning 
to  grow  ratlier  impatient,  when  the  twain  in  the  garden 
came  out  in  tlie  moonlight  and  lingered  an  instant,  with 
clasped  hands,  before  parting. 

The  miin  dashed  off  toward  the  gate  at  a  swinging  pace, 
and  Miss  Wayne  turned  slowly  up  to  the  house. 

"Who  can  it  be?"  mused  Fanny.  *' If  it  were  a 
father  or  a  brother  or  a  first  cousin,  even,  it  wouldn't  be 
so  much  harm  ;  although,  I  dare  say,  George  might  object 
to  a  first  cousin.  But  Magdalen  has  no  relations  whiit- 
ever,  except  an  old  nurse  and  a  little  niece,  that  ever  I 
heard  her  speak  about  ;  then  I  wonder  wlio  that  man  can 
be  ?  It's  very  odd  ;  but,  I  suppose,  she'll  explain  it  wlieu 
she  comes  in." 

Fanny  descended  at  once  and  encountered  her  gover- 
ness in  the  lower  hall.  Miss  Wayne  looked  very  pale  and 
subdued — otlierwise  there  was  no  change. 

George  came  out  of  the  dining-room  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, cigar  in  mouth,  book  in  hand. 

''  Fanny,  are  you  here  yet  ?  I  thought  I  told  you,  half 
an  hour  ago,  you  were  wanted  in  the  sick-room.  Mag- 
dalen, I  began  to  tliink  you  were  lost.  Why  did  you 
linger  so  ?     You  look  pale  and  half  frozen." 

°  Now  !  "  thouglit  Fanny. 

And  she  held  her  breath  for  the  answer.  But  Mag- 
dalen, with  a  little  shiver,  turned  to  go  up-stairs,  with  a 
very  evasive  and  unsatisfactory  reply  : 

"lam  cold  and  a  little  worn  out,  I  believe.  I  shall 
go  to  my  room  and  lie  down.  Fanny,  if  you  sit  up  until 
midnight  I'll  relieve  you  then.     Goodnight,  George." 


90  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

She  ran  lightly  up-stairs  and  vanished  into  her  own 

room. 

Geoi'ge  went  back  a  little  disappointed  to  his  book  and 
cigar,  and  Miss  Winters,  very  slowly  and  with  a  preter- 
naturally  solemn  face,  wended  her  way  to  the  sick-room. 

*'  It's  a  secret,"  thought  Fanny  ;  "  the  only  secret  I 
ever  had  to  keep  in  my  life,  and  she  doesn't  know  I  know 
it.  She  isn't  going  to  tell  George,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  it  were  some  youthful  lover  come  back  to  upbraid  her 
for  her  perfidy.  I  ought  to  tell  somebody,  because  it's 
wicked  and  romantic  of  Magdalen  to  act  so  ;  but  I  don't 
like  to— it  seems  mean — and  then  I  should  hate  to  make 
Magdalen  mad," 

So  Miss  Winters,  burning  to  tell,  put  a  severe  restraint 
on  herself  and  resolved  to  offer  up  her  inclinations  on  the 
altar  of  friendship  and  keep  Magdalen's  wicked  secret. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Magdalen's  wedding  day. 

Oyek  an  earth  of  snow-clad  whiteness,  in  an  oriflammo 
of  crimson  glory,  sank  the  sun  on  Magdalen's  wedding 

eve. 

A  red  and  lurid  sunset — the  whole  western  sky  ablaze 
with  black  and  brassy  bars,  flaring  behind  the  scarlet 
splendor,  and  lingering— prophetic  of  coming  change- 
when  the  burning  fires  of  sunset  had  faded  and  gone. 

The  last  sun  of  the  old  year  had  set,  burning  and 
wrathful,  in  a  sky  that  was  like  a  sea  of  blood  ;  the  last 
sunset  of  Magdalen  Allward's  maiden  life  had  dipped  be- 
hind the  pine  woods  and  vanished,  leaving  that  lurid, 
ominous  blaze  behind,  forerunner  of  a  coming  storm. 

Magdalen  Allward  stood  by  the  drawing-room  window, 
looking  out  at  the  gorgeous  glory  of  that  setting  sun.^ 

White  and  high  lay  piled  the  snow  drifts,  this  bitter 
New  Year's  eve  ;  icy  and  wild  blew  the  long,  wailing  blasts  ; 
gaunt  and  bare  rattled  the  skeleton  arms  of  the  trees 
around  Golden  Willows.  A  dead  world  lying  in  its  shroud 
— dreariness  and  desolation  and  the  coldness  of  the  grave 
everywhere — that  was  what  the  bride-elect  stood  looking 
at  on  her  bridal  eve. 


MAGDALEN'S  WEDDING  DAY.  91 

She  was  quite  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  the  pretty, 
dainty  drawing-room  of  Golden  Willows.  A  new  carpet, 
soft  and  rich,  covered  the  floor  ;  dainty  new  draperies 
shaded  the  windows  ;  elegant  now  furniture  gleamed  and 
glittered  in  all  the  glory  of  French  polish,  in  the  light  of 
the  sparkling  coal  fire.  There  were  festoons  of  evergreen 
and  brilliant  scarlet  berries  over  the  doorways  and  win- 
dows, unfaded  since  the  Christmas  festivities,  and  Mag- 
dalen stood  in  one  of  these  green  arches  like  a  picture  in 
a  frame.  On  this  eve  of  her  new  life — for  the  first  time 
since  her  sister's  death — Magdalen  had  entirely  discarded 
her  mo«rning. 

She  stood  there,  in  a  floating  robe  of  pearl-colored  crepe, 
that  was  shot  with  rosy  gleams,  and  which  bluslied  as  she 
walked  ;  delicate  ribbons  and  laces  fluttered  about  her  ;  a 
bandeau  of  pearls — her  lover's  gift — shimmering  in  her 
burnished  hair,  and  on  her  lovely,  uncovered  neck  and 
arms — as  fair  and  stately  and  sweet  a  bride  as  that  setting 
sun  shone  on  the  wide  world  over. 

The  last  little  pink  cloud  of  that  tropical  splendor  in 
the  western  sky  faded  and  died  out,  and  slowly  the  dull, 
creeping  grayness  of  early  night  darkened  down  like  a 
pall.  Out  of  the  cold,  somber  arch  shone,  steel-blue  and 
sparkling,  the  frosty  December  stars  ;  for  the  late-rising 
moon  would  not  be  here  for  hours  to  light  the  snowy 
world. 

Slowly  the  darkness  crept  up  over  the  hills  and  the  tree 
tops,  and  the  broad  white  fields  ;  mournfully  wailed  the 
winter  wind  around  the  eaves  and  gables.  The  house 
was  very  still — so  ominously  still  you  might  have  thought 
it  the  eve  of  a  funeral — not  a  wedding. 

George  was  not  home  from  ]\Iillford,  Miss  Barstone  was 
asleep  after  her  late  dinner,  and  Fanny  was  up  in  her 
room,  writing  a  letter  to  Phil — a  torrent  of  reproaches  for 
his  refusal  to  be  present  at  the  woilding. 

Outside  and  inside  a  solemn,  weird  hush  lay,  and  Mag- 
daloi  shivered  in  the  genial  warmth  of  the  room,  with  a 
sensation  which  makes  people  say  :  '*  Some  one  is  walking 
over  my  grave."  Her  face,  in  the  pallid  starlight,  was  as 
colorless  as  her  dress. 

''What  is  it?"  Magdalen  asked  herself,  with  a  thrill 
and  a  shiver  ;  "  what  is  it,  this  nameless,  numb  forebod- 
ing of  evil,  which  is  chilling  me  to  the  very  heart's  core  ? 


92  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

If  I  am  ever  to  be  utterly  blessed,  surely  now  is  the  time  ; 
to-morrow  is  ray  wedding  day — my  happy  wedding  day. 
And  yet  I  have  had  this  dark  presentiment  of  impending 
evil  all  day  !  Surely  notiiing  is  going  to  separate  me  from 
George — surely  nothing  can  have  happened  to  Willie  ?" 

With  the  thought  yet  in  her  head  she  heard  the  outer 
gate  sharply  unlatch  and  heard  a  man's  step  on  the  frosty 
ground. 

Another  instant  and  George  came  in  sight,  walking 
rapidly — another  and  the  hall  door  had  opened,  and  he 
was  stamping  the  snow  off  his  boots  and  talking  cheerily 
in  the  hall. 

"  Silence  and  solitude — darkness  and  dismalness  !  Here, 
Jane — Susan — where  are  you  all  ?  Come,  one  of  you, 
and  light  up  !     Let's  see  who's  here  !  " 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  drawing-room  and  saw,  in 
the  leaping  firelight,  the  tall,  white  figure,  with  the  shim- 
mering pearls  and  bright  gold  hair,  by  the  window. 

"  Alone,  my  dearest  ?  "  George  said  with  a  most  lover- 
like embrace  ;  "  and  with  oh,  such  a  mournful  face,  my 
solemn  Magdalen  !  Come,  I've  got  something  for  you  that 
perhaps  will  cheer  you  up,  even  on  the  melancholy  eve  of 
your  wedding." 

Mr.  Barstone  produced  a  letter  in  a  buff  envelope  and 
flourished  it  before  her  eyes. 

"  As  the  writing  is  of  a  particularly  hilly  character,  and 
as  you  have  but  one  correspondent,  I  suppose  I  may  safely 
set  it  down  as  from  old  Nurse  Rachel.  Here,  take  and 
read  it,  and  let  us  see  if  it  can  charm  away  your  dole- 
fulness  ?  " 

He  tossed  her  the  letter  and  walked  over  to  tlie  fire, 
whistling. 

Magdalen  tore  it  open  and  barely  suppressed  a  cry  to 
see  inclosed  a  tiny  note  from  Willie — a  very  tiny  note, 
indeed,  with  only  these  words  : 

New  York,  Dec.  33,  18—. 
Dear  M.  : — 

I  suppose  you  will  want  to  hear  from  me,  even  if  I  have 
no  news,  to  tell.  Well,  I  have  no  news,  and  here  I  am,  like 
tlie  best  of  brothers,  droppnig  you  a  lin^.  I  am  all  right 
myself,  and  trying,  night  and  day,  to  find  a  clue  to  the 
man  I  want.     He  hasn't  turned  up  yet,  but  he  will  one 


MAGDALEN'S  WEDDING  DAY.  93 

day,  and,  when  lie  does,  I  hold  him  in  the  hollow  of  my 
hand.     You  don't  understand  ?     JS'o  matter.     I  will  be 
more  explicit  auother  time. 
Take  care  of  yourself,  and  I'll  take  care  of     Willie. 

There  was  an  address  at  the  end— some  low  place  on 
the  Eiist  Side — to  which  she  was  to  write. 

Magdalen  crumpled  the  note  up  and  thrust  it  into  the 
pocket  of  her  dress  and  glanced  over  the  other  epistle. 

It  was  of  the  shortest,  also — writing  being  up-hill  work 
to  poor  old  Rachel — but  it  told  Magdalen  she  and  little 
Laura  were  well. 

We  are  both  much  obliged  to  you  for  our  new  clothes 
(wrote  Nurse  Rachel),  and,  if  we  can,  we'll  come  to  the 
wedding  on  New  Year's  Day.  I  want  very  much,  indeed, 
to  see  my  nursling's  husband,  but  I  don't  like  to  say  I'll 
come  for  certain. 

Magdalen  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief  as  she  folded  up 
the  letter. 

Willie  and  nurse  and  Laura  were  all  well,  then  ;  and 
George  was  yonder,  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  whistling 
and  waiting,  with  the  happiest  face  man  ever  wore. 

Surely,  presentiments  were  very  foolish  things  ;  surely, 
she  was  the  silliest  and  most  suspicious,  not  to  say  most 
wicked  of  creatures,  to  tempt  Providence  by  these  doubts 
of  His  goodness. 

"  Oh,"  she  thought,  looking  up  at  the  lovely,  star-lit 
sky,  "  how  much  I  have  to  thankful  for  !  What  a  grateful, 
happy  heart  I  should  have  this  night  !  What  am  I  that 
blessings  should  be  heaped  upon  me — that  1  should  marry 
the  man  I  love  and  honor — that  I  should  have  a  happy 
home  and  hosts  of  kindest  friends — whilst  so  many  in  this 
great  world  suffer  life-long  martyrdom  ?" 

"My  mournful  Magdalen!"  said  George  Barstone, 
coming  over;  "what  a  white,  sorrowful  face  you  wear  I 
You  are  as  colorless  and  spectnd  as  your  dress  : 

'  Oh,  rare,  pale  Margaret  I 
Oh,  fair,  pale  Margaret ! ' 

My  dearest,  tell  me  what  it  all  means  ?  " 
"  Nothing,  George,  but  I  am  so  happy  !" 
**  A  novel  reason  for  wearing  a  heart-broken  f ace  1    I 


94  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

had  begun  to  think  you  were  repenting  at  the  eleventh 

hour/'  ^  •        .^ 

"  I  shall  never  repent.     I  wonder  if  you  ever  will, 

George?" 

Her  thoughts  went  back  to  the  great  trouble  of  her  life 

to  that  solemn  vow  she  had  taken  upon  herself.     Would 

it  ever  come  between  them  to  darken  their  married  lives  ? 

"No  doubt  I  shall,"  Mr.  Barstone  said,  thoughtfully 
stroking  his  whiskers.  "  Fm  only  mortal,  and  no  more 
proof  against  Caudle  lectures  than  the  rest  of  my  brethren. 
I  believe  big  fellows  like  me  were  made  to  be  henpecked 
and  snubbed  and  tyrannized  over — abject  cringers  to 
petticoat  government.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  better  than 
the  rest.  Very  likely  I  shall  repent;  but  I'll  try  the 
matrimonial  experiment  all  the  same." 

Magdalen  smiled,  but  she  also  smothered  a  little  pang. 
She  ought  to  tell  him  about  Willie,  she  thought.  It  was 
wrong  even  to  have  that  secret  from  him.  And  then, 
Fanny  knew.  She  was  certain  Fanny  had  seen  that 
nocturnal  meeting,  from  innumerable  hints,  and  was  ac- 
tually dying  of  curiosity  to  know  of  the  stranger. 

"  If  I  tell  her,  I  must  tell  George,"  Magdalen  thought ; 
*'  and,  poor  fellow,  that  great,  good  heart  of  his  is  sensi- 
tive where  I  am  concerned.  I  should  like  to  spare  him, 
if  I  could.  It's  no  pleasant  thing  to  hear  that  the  convict 
brother  of  the  wife  he  loves  comes  creeping  here,  like  a 
thief,  in  the  night— afraid  to  show  his  face  in  open  day. 
No!  I  will  spare  him  this  and  trust  to  Fanny's  dis- 
cretion." 

As  if  her  thought  had  evoked  her,  the  door  was  flung 
impetuously  open,  and,  enter  Miss  Winters,  with  a  mighty 
swishing  of  silk. 

"  It's  my  '  Moonlight-on- the-Lake,'  "  burst  forth  the 
young  lady,  flirting  out  her  flounces  with  both  hands ; 
"  my  '  Moonlight-on-the  Lake,'  Magdalen,  that  the  dress- 
maker has  just  brought  home.  It  fits  lovely ;  and  the 
train's  a  yard  and  three-quarters  long,  and  these  pufl&ngs 
of  tulle  on  corsage  and  shoulder  straps  are  perfectly  de- 
licious !  It's  the  new  color,  George,  you  know  !  Isn't  it 
the  sweetest  thing  you  ever  saw  in  your  life  ?" 

"  Humph  !  Very  likely  it  is,  to  a  soul  capable  of  ap- 
preciating its  beauties.  It's  rather  a  wishy-washy  affair, 
in  ray  estimation.     Where's  the  neck  and  sleeves  ?  " 


MAGDALEN'S  WEDDING  DAY-  95 

"  Neck  and  sleeves  !  "  retorted  Fanny,  with  unutterable 
scorn  ;  "  who  ever  heard  of  neck  and  sleeves  in  a  ball 
dress — stupid  !  The  corsage  isn't  too  low,  is  it,  Mag- 
dalen ?  Aunt  Lydia  says  it  is  ;  but  then,  Aunt  Lydia's 
notions  are  old-fashioned.  Why  on  earth  don't  you  ring 
for  lights,  George?"  said  Miss  Winters,  flinging  herself 
into  a  low  chair,  her  '  Moonlight-ou-the-Lako'  ballooning 
splendidly  around  her.  "Engaged  people  are,  for  all  the 
world,  like  bats  and  owls,  eternally  mooning  in  the  dark. 
How  sweet  your  new  pearls  look,  Magdalen  !  I  consider 
it  very  shabby  on  George's  part  not  to  have  ordered  me  a 
set  at  the  same  time.  I  dropped  Phil  a  hint,  too,  and  all 
I  got  for  it  was  a  rubbishing  trumpery  garnet  ring." 

"  Phil  has  no  money  to  spare  for  gimcracks,  Fanny,'* 
George  said,  gravely,  as  he  rang  for  light ;  '*  he  is  but 
Masterson's  assistant ;  and  then,  there  are  debts,  con- 
tracted years  ago" — with  some  hesitation — '*  which  he  is 
honorably  trying  to  pay  off.  Poor  Phil  has  to  work  hard 
— so  hard,  that  he  cannot  spare  time  to  run  down  for  the 
wedding,  now  that  Masterson  is  laid  up." 

"  Laid  up  ! "  repeated  Fanny,  scornfully  ;  "  I  don't  be- 
lieve he's  laid  up  !  It's  cither  pure  aggravation  on  his 
part,  or  laziness  on  Phil's  !  Don't  tell  me,  George  Bar- 
stone  !  I  know  better  !  It's  my  usual  luck.  I  never  set 
my  heart  upon  anything  yet  that " 

"Please,  ma'am,  tea's  ready,"  interrupted  a  smiling 
little  maiden,  popping  her  head  in  ;  "  and  Miss  Barstone, 
she's  a- waiting." 

Fanny  bounced  up  at  once,  forgetting  her  grievances  in 
the  cravings  of  her  appetite,  five  hours  old,  and  led  tho 
way  to  the  dining-room. 

Miss  Barstone  had  been  conveyed  down-stairs  to  do 
honor  to  this  festal  occasion,  and  sat  at  the  head  of  the 
table. 

"For  the  last  time,  my  dear,"  she  said,  smilingly,  look- 
ing at  Magdalen.  "  To-morrow,  and  for  the  rest  of  your 
happy  life,  you  will  take  my  place  as  mistress  of  Golden 
Willows." 

"  Unless  something  should  turn  up  between  this  and  to- 
morrow morning  to  prevent  the  nuptials,"  suggested 
Fanny,  with  great  evident  relish  at  the  idea.  "  There's 
many  a  slip,  you  know.  Now,  Aunt  Lydia,  it's  no  use 
your  frowning,  or  George's  looking  carving  knives.     My 


96  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

talking  about  it  won't  make  it  happen,  will  it  ?  And  a 
marriage  once  postponed  is  never  lucky,  and  this  marriage 
was  to  have  taken  place  two  months  ago.  Just  suppose, 
now,  for  instance,  when  Magdalen's  in  the  church,  and 
the  minister's  saying  :  '  If  anybody  here  present  knows 
anything  to  prevent  this  marriage,  let  them  come  forward 
and  declare  it,  or  forever  after  hold  their  peace  ! '  And 
suppose  some  former  lover — you  must  have  had  lovers, 
you  know,  Magdalen — should  step  out  from  behind  a 
pillar  and  cry,  in  deep  bass,  '  Hold  !  I  forbid  the  bans  ! ' 
Wouldn't  it  be  just  like  a  chapter  in  a  novel  now  ?" 

Fanny  looked  across  the  table  with  eager  eyes  as  she 
launched  this  poisoned  arrow  at  Magdalen's  guilty 
breast. 

"  That  will  smite  her  in  a  vital  place  !"  thought  Miss 
Barstone's  lively  ward,  "  and  she'll  blush  and  betray  her- 
self." 

But,  to  Miss  Winters'  disappointment,  Magdalen  only 
laughed,  while  George  scowled  blackly. 

"  I  wish  to  heaven  you  were  a  chapter  in  a  novel,  Miss 
Winters,  so  that  I  might  deposit  you  in  the  fire  !  If  you 
cannot  choose  a  more  agreeable  topic,  be  kind  enough  to 
hold  your  tongue." 

Fanny  sighed  resignedly,  and  held  it — for  two  seconds 
and  a  half. 

"  George  must  know  all  about  it,"  she  thought,  regret- 
fully, "or  she'd  never  look  so  indifferent.  It  must  have 
been  a  first  cousin,  too  poor  to  be  brought  in,  and  she's 
told  George  all  about  it." 

Supper  over,  George  wheeled  Aunt  Lydia  into  the  draw- 
ing-room ;  but,  despite  her  cheery  presence,  conversation 
flagged.  Great  happiness  does  not  make  people  garrulous, 
and  George  and  Magdalen  sat  very  silent,  both  hearts  too 
full  of  bliss  for  words  or  smiles. 

Aunt  Lydia  did  her  best  and  Miss  Winters'  struggles 
were  more  than  mortal,  but  still  those  long,  awful  blanks 
would  fall. 

"Oh,  dear  !"  cried  Fanny,  with  a  great  and  irrepres- 
sible yawn,  "  this  is  slow  !  I  always  thought  a  wedding  in 
a  house  was  a  cheerful  thing  ;  but  for  the  future  give  me 
a  funeral— do  !  You  and  Miss  Wayne,  Mr.  Barstone,  are 
about  as  agreeable  company  as  two  graveyard  slabs !  I 
should  advise  each  of  you  to  retire  to  your  apartments. 


MAGDALEN*8  WEDDING  DAY.  97 

and  pray  for  a  more  Christian  and  conversable  frame  of 

mind  on  tlie  morrow." 

With  which  bitter  reproach,  the  first  bridesmaid  sailed 
over  to  the  piuuo  and  essayed  a  hornpipe.  But  the  mild 
melancholy  of  tlie  occasion  had  infected  her  and  the  horn- 
pipe was  a  failure;  so,  after  a  little  preliminary  strum- 
ming, Miss  Winters  crooned  forth  a  pathetic  little  song, 
to  a  pathetic  little  air  : 

I. 

The  moon  looks  down  from  the  cloudless  skies, 

On  mountain,  vale  and  river  ; 
And  a  thousand  stars,  with  pitying  eyes. 

Forever  and  forever. 
But  never  a  light  in  tlie  distance  gleams; 

No  eye  looks  out  for  the  rover. 
Oh,  sweet  be  yoiu-  sleep,  love — sweet  be  your  dreams, 

Under  the  blossoming  clover — 

The  sweet-scented,  bee-haunted  clover  1 

II. 

The  birches  droop  as  they  drooped  of  old. 

O'er  the  banks  of  this  lonely  river, 
Whose  waters  roll  as  they  have  rolled, 

Forever  and  forever. 
But  never  a  light  in  the  distance  gleams ; 

No  eye  looks  out  for  the  rover. 
Oh,  sweet  be  your  sleep,  love — sweet  be  your  dreams^ 

Under  the  blossoming  clover — 

The  sweet-scented,  bee-haunted  clover ! 

III. 

I  note  the  flow  of  the  weary  years, 

Like  the  flow  of  tliis  flowing  river  ; 
But  dead  in  my  heart  are  its  hopes  and  fears. 

Forever  and  forever. 
But  never  a  light  in  the  distance  gleams ; 

No  eye  looks  out  for  the  rover. 
Oh,  sweet  be  your  sleep,  love — sweet  be  your  dreams^ 

Under  the  blossoming  clover — 

The  sweet-scented,  bee-haunted  clover  I — 

The  last  lingering  notes  died  away  and  again  that  blank 
silence  fell.  Is  the  eve  of  a  wedding  ever  gay  ?  In  that 
pause  for  breath  between  the  excitement  of  yesterday  and 
the  joy  of  to-morrow,  a  strange  hush  and  awe  rested  npoa 
the  house. 


08  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

The  son,  who  stands  happy  and  eager  yonder,  after  to- 
night will  be  yours  no  longer,  the  daughter,  who  sits, 
beautiful  and  beloved,  brooding  by  the  fire,  after  to-mor- 
row will  belong,  body  and  soul,  to  another. 

Fanny  was  right.  The  eve  of  a  wedding  is  but  a  shade 
less  melancholy  than  the  eve  of  a  funeral. 

Magdalen's  thoughts  had  gone  drifting  away,  whilst 
Fanny  sung,  to  Laura's  grave  "under  the  blossoming 
clover  ;"  and  that  cloud  which  darkened  her  fair  face  ever 
at  her  dead  sister's  memory  lay  darkly  there  now.  Miss 
Barstoiie  saw  it,  and  understood.  George  saw  it  and 
wondered,  with  man's  impatient  pain,  that  any  one,  dead 
or  alive,  should  come  between  him  and  the  woman  he 
loved.  And  still  heroically  struggling  to  the  last,  there 
clattered  about  their  ears  Fanny's  irrepressible  chatter. 

"Heaven  help  your  future  husband,  Fanny!"  said 
George,  in  the  first  pause.  "  If  ever  mortal  man  was  to 
be  pitied,  it  is  he  !  " 

That  long,  peaceful  evening — the  last  Magdalen  was  to 
know  for  such  a  weary  while — how  it  haunted  her  in  those 
stormy  coming  days  !  She  nestled  for  the  last  time  at 
Miss  Barstone's  lap,  with  a  sense  of  ineffable  rest  and 
peace.  To-morrow  there  would  be  fuss  and.  display  and 
excitement,  and  a  crowd  of  people  ;  this  bridal  eve  was  all 
their  own — sacred  to  themselves. 

George's  face  was  altogether  indescribable  in  its  glorified 
beatitude,  and  his  infatuated  eyes  rarely  wandered  from 
that  white-robed,  shining-haired  vision,  leaning  against 
his  aunt's  great  arm-chair. 

"  To  think,"  thought  Mr.  Barstone,  with  little,  rap- 
turous thrills  running  over  him,  "that  it  was  my  wife  I 
advertised  for,  that  time,  in  the  Herald — my  wife,  that 
that  talkative  English  Mroman  bored  me  talking  about — 
my  wife,  that  lovely,  golden-haired,  gray-eyed  girl— the 
most  beautiful  thing,  I  thought  then,  and  I  think  now, 
the  sun  shone  on  !  " 

"  I  am  sorry  Phil  is  not  to  be  here,"  Miss  Barstone 
said  once,  as  it  grew  late.  "  No  one  else  should  have 
stood  by  your  side  on  your  wedding  day,  George.  And 
now,  my  children,  as  it  grows  late,  let  us  part  until  to- 
morrow. Good-night.  George,  good-night  Fanny,  good- 
night Magdalen.     God  bless  you  all  !  " 

**  Vm.  sure  I  don't  expect  to  sleep  a  wink,"  remarked 


MAGDALEN'S  WEDDING  DAY.  99 

Fanny,  at  lier  own  door;  "  and  I  don't  suppose  you  do, 
either,  Magdalen.  As  for  George,"  witli  a  reproachful 
glance  at  that  culprit,  "  I  dare  say  he  would  sleep  if  it 
was  the  eve  of  his  hanging  I  " 

"I  dare  say  I  would,"  replied  George.  ''  I  shall  make 
the  attempt  now,  at  least ;  and  so  good-night,  Fan— good- 
night, Magdalen." 

A  warm,  clinging  pressure  of  the  little  hand — a  last 
lingering  look  of  infinite  love,  a  bright,  shy  blush  on  tlie 
exquisite  maidenly  face— and  then  Magdalen  was  alone  in 
her  own  pretty  room.  It  was  almost  midnight,  by  the 
little  jeweled  watcli  at  her  belt. 

The  lamp  burned  low,  the  fire  glowed  bright ;  a  low 
rocker  stood  temptingly  before  it,  and  through  the  lace 
curtains  slioue  in  a  broad,  white  belt  of  moonlight.  High 
in  the  purple  arch  rode  the  midnight  moon,  flooding  the 
white  world  with  glory.  It  was  beautiful — it  was  solemn 
— too  solemn,  in  its  death-like  hush,  its  death-like  white- 
ness ;  and  the  bride  closed  tiie  curtains  and  went  to  thefire. 

Sitting  down  in  tlie  luxurious  little  rocking-chair,  with 
her  lovely  light  hair  all  falling  loose  around  her— with  the 
conviction  on  her  mhid  that  it  was  of  no  use  going  to  bed, 
for  she  could  not  sleep— Magdalen  Allward  dropped  fast 
asleep  before  the  fire— slept  long  and  soundly  at  first — a 
deep,  healthful,  dreamless  sleep.  Hour  after  hour  the 
<'  wee  sma'  hours  ayont  the  twal "  struck  somewhere  be- 
low, and  tlie  black  wintry  dawn  was  growing  gray  in  the 
sky;  then  Magdalen's  sleep  grew  restless— she  tossed 
drearily,  drowsily,  without  awaking,  and,  half  asleep,  half 
awake,  dreamed. 

The  gloomy  churchyard  where  Laura  lay  was  before  her  ; 
the  trees,  stark,  rattling  skeletons  ;  the  ground  all  white 
with  snow  ;  a  low-lying,  leaden  sky,  hanging  above  like  a 
pall.  She  could  hear  the  wailing  wind  through  the  ghostly 
trees  ;  she  could  feel  its  icy  breath  freezing  the  blood  in 
her  veins.  No  living  soul  was  near  her,  as  she  knelt 
there— alone  in  the  dead,  white  desolation,  with  an  awful, 
indefinable  horror  and  expectation  creeping  over  her. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  grave  by  which  she  knelt,  with 
that  unutterable  horror  and  expectation--and  slowly, 
slowly  the  grave  opened,  the  coffin-lid  raised — and  her 
father  in  his  winding  sheet  rose  up,  dead  and  dreadful, 
^ud  stood  before  her, 


100  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

Magdalen  strove  to  cry  out  in  her  sleep,  but  all  sound 
froze  on  her  paralyzed  lips — all  faculties  were  absorbed  in 
the  one  faculty  of  seeing.  On  tliat  dead  face  was  a  look 
of  sternest  reproach — one  flickering  finger  was  raised  in 
warning  or  inenace,  and  then,  keeping  his  spectral  face 
still  toward  her,  the  vision  vanished  in  the  twiliglit. 

To  be  followed  by  anotlier — Laura — lying  cold  and  rigid, 
in  the  little  parlor  at  home,  as  she  had  seen  her  that  first 
night  of  her  return  from  school.  Again  she  was  kneeling 
by  the  bier — again  ^hat  nameless,  waiting  dread  froze  her 
to  the  marrow  of  her  bones.  Again  the  dead  eyes  opened, 
the  dead  woman  sat  erect — again  Magdalen  saw  that  fixed, 
frozen  look  of  bitter  reproach.  The  livid  lips  parted  and 
%  hollow  voice  spoke  : 

"  She  has  sworn  and  see  how  she  keeps  her  vow  !*' 

The  dead  arms  reached  out  to  her.  With  a  wild  cry  of 
terror  the  dreamer  started  up  and  awoke. 

Awoke  to  find  herself  cramped  and  benumbed,  and  cold 
to  the  heart.  The  fire  had  died  out,  the  dismal  dawn  filled 
the  room,  the  lamp  burned  dim  and  wan  on  the  table,  and 
her  wedding  day  had  come.  Pale  as  a  spirit,  Magdalen 
rose  up,  the  blank  horror  of  her  dream  upon  her  yet. 

''Something  will  happen  this  day,"  she  said,  with  a 
shiver.  "  I  am  doing  wrong.  The  ghosts  of  the  dead 
have  come  to  reproach  me." 

She  could  sleep  no  longer  ;  she  was  trembling  from  head 
to  foot  with  cold  and  agitation.  The  minutes  wore  on, 
the  sun  arose  with  banners  of  rosy  cloud  to  herald  his 
glory,  the  house  was  astir.  Fanny  was  rapping  at  her 
door,  and  tilie  life  of  a  new  day  was  begun — a  day  that  was 
to  be  like  no  other  in  Magdalen  All  ward's  life. 

From  that  moment  events  hurried  on  with  a  rapidity 
tliat  left  her  no  time  to  think.  The  marriage  was  to  take 
place  in  the  Millford  Episcopal  Church,  at  ten  o'clock,  a 
wedding  breakfast  to  be  eaten  after,  and  the  12.50  train 
to  New  York  to  be  caught.  There  was  no  time  to  think, 
no  time  to  hesitate,  no  time  to  tell  them  why  she  looked 
so  deadly  pale  ;  why  she  trembled  like  an  aspen  leaf.  She 
drank  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  then  the  bridesmaids  were 
there— a  cluster  of  blooming,  rosy  girls  ;  and  then  she  was 
up  in  her  room  with  them,  fluttering  around  like  butter- 
flies around  a  rose ;  and  then  she  was  all  robed  in  spot- 
less silk  and  misty  laces,  and  sparkling  pearls  and  virginal 


MAGDALEN'S  WEDI>ING  DAY.  101 

orange  blossoms,  and  looking  white  and  lovely  as  a  spirit 
of  the  moonliglit  ;  and  tlicii  they  were  in  the  carriages, 
rattling  alon^  in  tlie  brilliant  frosty  air  to  the  church — 
and  all  the  tune  Magdalen's  heart  was  ringing  with  the 
cry,  "  Something  will  liappcn — something  will  happen." 
But  George  was  by  her  side — handsome,  happy  George — 
and  she  looked  up  in  his  frank,  honest  face,  full  of  love 
and  undying  tenderness,  and  drew  a  long  breath  and  tried 
to  feel  safe.  And  then  they  were  in  the  little  church, 
half-filled  with  people,  and  she  was  standing  before  a  pale 
young  man,  with  glasses  and  surplice,  and  the  magic  words 
were  being  spoken  amid  a  death-like  silence  : 

""Wilt  thou  have  this  man  ?"  etc.,  and  she  heard  her 
own  voice  answering,  "I  will,"  as  if  it  were  the  voice  of 
some  one  else  ;  and  then  the  ring  was  shining  on  her  finger, 
and  the  clergymnn's  voice  was  repeating  the  closing  words, 
"  "What  God  hath  joined  together,  let  no  man  put  asunder." 
Then  the  last  prayer  was  read,  and  there  was  no  Magdalen 
Allward  in  the  world  any  more.  She  was  George  Bar- 
stone's  happy  wife,  and  nothing  had  happened. 

They  went  into  the  vestry  to  sign  their  names,  and  then 
Magdalen  was  walking  down  the  aisle  on  her  husband's 
arm.  At  the  church  door  there  was  a  sudden  pause  and 
confusion,  for  some  one  in  the  church  had  screamed  out 
— a  wild,  shrill  scream.  The  bride  almost  echoed  it — it 
struck  on  her  heart  like  the  knell  of  doom.  But  it  was 
only  some  woman,  the  sexton  said,  who  had  "got  weak 
and  fainted  away  like." 

The  bridal  party  re-entered  the  carriages  and  were 
driven  back  to  Golden  Willows.  ]5reakfast  waited  them 
and  breakfast  was  eaten  and  passed  off  like  any  other  wed- 
ding breakfast. 

And  then  it  was  time  for  the  bride  to  don  her  traveling 
dress  and  start  on  the  first  stage  of  her  wedding  tour. 

Just  then  something  did  happen.  The  door  bell  rang 
and  there  was  a  young  man  from  Millford,  wanting  "  most 
particular  "  to  speak  to  the  bride. 

Of  course  everybody  was  surprised  ;  but  the  bride  sa\*- 
him  at  once  and  alone. 

"I'm  a  waiter  in  the  Millford  House,"  this  young  man 
explained,  twirling  his  hat  uneasily  in  the  radiant  bridal 
presence,  "and  I've  been  sent  by  the  boss  to  say  there's  a 
elderly  party  at  our  house,  taking  on  abooib  joa  most  aw- 


102  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

ful.  It's  an  old  woman  that  came  last  night,  with  a  little 
girl,  and  she  went  this  morning  to  see  you  married,  and 
she  screeched  right  out  in  meetiu',  and  had  to  be  took 
home.  Now  slie's  going  on  horrid,  and  says  she  must  see 
you  right  avyay,  or  something  dreadful  will  happen,  and 
to  tell  you  her  name  is  '  Nurse  Rachel,'  and  to  come  to 
her  as  fast  as  you  can." 

The  young  man  was  quite  out  of  breath  with  this  long 
speech,  and  paused  here  with  a  gasp. 

Magdalen,  white  as  her  dress  as  she  listened,  heard  her 
husband  calling  to  her  in  the  hall  without : 

"  Better  hurry,  Magdalen — time  is  on  the  wing — past 
eleven  o'clock." 

*' Go  back,"  Magdalen  said  to  the  young  man,  **tell 
her  I  will  be  with  her  in  half  an  hour." 

She  left  the  room,  ran  up-stairs,  and  in  ten  minutes  was 
back,  dressed  for  her  journey. 

The  good-bys  were  said,  George  handed  her  into  the 
carriage,  sprang  lightly  in  after  her,  and  took  his  seat  by 
her  side. 

"Tell  him  to  drive  to  the  Millford  House,"  Magdalen 
said,  "  my  old  nurse  is  there  and  wants  to  see  me." 

George  gave  the  order.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  they 
drew  up  at  the  door. 

*'  Wait  for  me  here,"  Magdalen  said,  *'  I  will  not  keep 
you  long." 

She  followed  the  waiter  to  an  upper  room — opened  the 
door  and  found  herself  face  to  face  with  old  Rachel. 

The  old  woman  was  sitting  over  the  fire,  rocking  herself 
and  moaning.  Little  Laura  was  perched  on  a  high  chair, 
gazing  out  of  the  window  at  the  busy  street. 

Old  Rachel  started  up  with  a  great  cry  at  the  sigh^  of 
her  nursling. 

"  What  is  it,  Rachel  ?  "  was  Magdalen's  first  question. 

It  had  come — that  unknown  horror  she  had  waited  for 
— she  was  not  even  surprised. 

But  old  Rachel's  sole  answer  was  to  shrink  away,  with 
both  arms  outstretched  to  keep  her  off,  and  a  face  full  of 
blank,  speechless  dismay. 

"  What  is  it,  Rachel  ?  "  Magdalen  reiterated,  taking  no 
heed  of  little  Laura,  who  had  run  to  her  with  a  gleeful, 
childish  cry. 

**  Oh,  my  child  !  my  child  !  what  have  you  done  ?  '* 


AT  THE  OPERA.  103 

"  What  have  I  done  ? "  repeated  Magdalen,  slowly. 
"  What  ?  " 

"  That  man  !  that  man  !  that  man  you  married  this 
morning  '  " 


"  Well  ?  "  cried  Magdalen,  with  ashen  lips. 
"Oh,  heaven    have   pity   on  jon,  Magdalen    Allwai 
Tke  man  you  married  this  morning  is  Maurice  Langley 


CHAPTER  Xni. 

AT  THE  OPERA. 

Theee  was  a  dead  pause.  Magdalen  stood  staring  at 
her  nurse,  utterly  unable  to  move,  utterly  unable  to  speak. 
Amid  all  the  revelations  she  had  expected  to  hear,  she  had 
never  expected  this. 

"It  is  Maurice  Langley!"  Rachel  repeated,  in  a 
frightened,  wailing  voice.  "  Oh,  my  child  !  what  will  be- 
come of  you  ?  Oh,  my  darling  !  I  am  frightened  for 
yon  !     Oh,  why  did  you  marry  that  man  ?  " 

With  a  mighty  effort,  Magdalen  found  voice.  The  first 
stunning  blow  of  so  unlocked  for  an  announcement  passed 
and  utter  incredulity  came  to  her  aid. 

"  I  don't  believe  it  I "  she  said,  slowly—"  I  don't  be- 
lieve it !     George  Barstone  is  never  Maurice  Langley  !  " 

But  old  Rachel  shook  her  head  and  wrung  her  hands. 

"  My  poor  baby  I  my  poor,  little  innocent  Magdalen  ! 
How  little  you  know  of  the  wickedness  and  treachery  and 
falsehood  of  this  sinful  world  !  I  would  spare  you  if  1 
could,  but— oil,  my  child  !  my  child  !  Why  were  you 
let  marry  him  ?  '' 

"  Rachel,  for  God's  sake,  hush  !  This  is  my  wedding 
day  ! " 

"  My  poor  Magdalen  ;  but  I  speak  the  truth — that  man 
was  Maurice  Langley." 

She  held  up  her  hands  with  a  passionate  gesture — this 
unhappy  bride. 

"Rachel — Rachel!  have  mercy!  This  is  my  wedding 
day  !  Oh,  my  God  !  what  is  this  you  are  telling  me  ? 
Are  you  trying  to  drive  me  mad  ?  " 

Rachel  recoiled  in  terror  before  that  colorless  face. 

"  Magdalen,  don't  look  like  that !  My  darling,  perhaps 
I  ought  not  to  have  told  you  now,  when  it  is  too  late  ;  but 


104  MAGDALEN'S  VOW.  1 

the  sight  of  that  man — that  Maurice  Langley — after  all 
these  years,  standing  by  your  side — yonr  husband  !  " 

The  old  nnrse  paused,  for  Magdalen  had  turned  upon 
her,  fiercely,  and  seized  her  by  the  arm. 

"It  is  not  true  !  I  tell  you  it  is  not !  You  are  de- 
ceiTed — strangely,  horribly  deceived  !  What  crime  have 
I  ever  committed  that  I  should  be  thus  accursed  ?  The 
man  I  have  married  is  the  noblest  man,  the  gentlest  gentle- 
man God  ever  made  !  Come  here  and  look  at  him  and 
tell  me  if  George  Barstone  has  the  face  of  a  murderer  !  " 

She  fairly  dragged  her  to  the  windovsr.  There,  full  in 
view,  sat  Mr.  George  Barstone,  animatedly  chatting  with 
two  or  three  stray  acquaintances,  and  wearing  as  happy 
and  careless  a  face  as  that  New  Year's  sun  shone  on. 

"  Look  at  him  !"  cried  the  girl,  excitedly.  "  Look  at 
that  frank,  open,  honest  face,  full  of  nothing  but  kindness 
and  goodness  for  all  mankind,  and  tell  me,  is  it  the  face 
of  a  gambler,  a  seducer,  a  murderer  ?  " 

In  her  passionate  excitement,  certainly  that  genial  coun- 
tenance was  a  staggerer,  even  to  such  conviction  as  Rach- 
el's, and  then  Magdalen's  frenzy  at  her  revelation  frightened 
her. 

*'  I  may  have  been  mistaken,  deary,"  old  Rachel  whim- 
pered, piteously,  '*  but  it's  very  like  him — only  he  used  to 
wear  whiskers  under  his  chin  and  on  his  upper  lip,  and  that 
man's  got  none.  I  hope  it's  not  Maurice  Langley,  I'm  sure, 
but  it  looks  like  him  !  " 

"Looks  like  him!"  Magdalen  repeated,  contemptu- 
ously. 

She  let  go  her  hold  of  the  old  woman,  and  leaned  a- 
gainst  a  table,  panting  and  pale. 

*'  You  have  frightened  me  nearly  to  death,  Rachel," 
she  said,  laying  her  hand  on  her  flattering  heart.  "  How 
could  you  do  it  ?  Looks  like  him  !  Why,  innocent  men 
have  been  hanged,  before  now,  for  those  accidental  like- 
nesses. My  poor  George  !  How  could  1,  who  know  you, 
be  so  unjust  as  to  doubt  you  for  one  poor  instant  ?  No — 
no — no  Rachel  !  Ten  thousand  times,  no  !  I  should 
stake  my  life,  my  salvation,  on  my  husband's  innocence  !  I 
would  as  soon  believe  an  ange  lout  of  heaven  could  fall 
as  that  Maurice  Langley  and  George  Barstone  were  one 
and  the  same." 

**  Perhaps  so,  my  dear,"  whimpered  Rachel,  quite  over- 


AT  THE  OPERA.  IM 

whelmed  by  this  impetnons  harangue.  *'  I'm  snre  I  don't 
want  to  believe  it.  But,  oh,  dear  !  dear  !  he  does  look 
awfully  like  him,  to  be  sure  !  " 

*'  We  won^t  talk  about  it,  Rachel,"  said  the  bride,  res- 
olutely ;  "  it  ifi  simply  impossible.  George  is  truth  and 
candor  itself  ;  he  has  heard  my  story,  and  he  knows  who 
I  am  ;  how  my  life  is  vowed  against  Maurice  Langley.  Do 
you  think,  if  your  horrible  supposition  were  true,  he  would 
dare  to  marry  me  after  that  ?  No,  Rachel  ;  these  black- 
hearted villains  are  all  cowards.  He  would  have  been  a- 
fraid  of  me,  weak  girl  that  I  am.  Besides,  it  is  the  wildest 
impossibility  that  I  could  ever  wed  my  sister's  destroyer. 
Some  inward  shuddering  would  warn  me  when  he  was  near 
— some  secret  prescience  would  tell  me  of  an  enemy's  pres- 
ence. Oh,  Rachel  !  It  is  simply,  utterly  impossible  !  I 
don't  want  to  think  of  it.  I  don't  want  to  talk  of  it  !  I 
love  my  husband  with  my  whole  heart  I  I  love  him  and 
honor  him  beyond  all  mankind.  I  will  not  wrong  him  by 
one  suspicion.     George  Barstone  is  above  reproach  I  " 

Her  face  turned  radiant  with  perfect  womanly  trust  and 
love  in  the  man  she  had  wedded.  She  laid  her  two  hands 
on  Rachel's  shoulders  and  looked  into  her  tearful  old  eyes, 
with  the  first  smile  her  face  had  worn. 

"  You  meant  well,  Rachel,  and  I  forgive  you.  I  will 
not  tell  a  living  soul  one  word  of  this,  and  I  will  forget  it, 
as  if  it  had  never  been.  And  now  I  must  say  good-bye. 
George  grows  impatient,  1  can  see,  and  our  train  starts 
soon.  You  can  go  back  to  New  Hampshire  knowing  your 
nursling  is  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long,  blessed  in  a  good 
man's  love.  Good-by,  dear  old  nursey  ;  good-by,  my  little 
pet  Laura  ;  you  shall  both  come  and  make  me  a  long  visit 
when  we  return  and  settle  down." 

And  then,  with  a  kiss  to  each,  the  bride  was  gone,  leav- 
ing a  rustle  of  silk,  a  breath  of  sweet  perfume,  to  tell  where 
she  had  been. 

Old  Rachel  saw  her  husband  hand  her  into  the  carriage 
—saw  her  bright  smile  of  undoubting  love  and  confidence 
— saw  his  happy  answering  glance,  and  all  with  a  dismal 
shake  of  her  aged  head. 

Two  hours  after  old  Rachel  and  her  tiny  charge  were 
steaming  back  to  the  old  New  Hampshire  homestead, 
while  Magdalen  and  her  husband  were  Hying  along  to  th« 
Empire  City. 


106  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

There  was  to  be  but  a  brief  bridal  tour,  Mr.  Barstone's 
business  and  Miss  Barstone's  health,  alike  forbidding  pro- 
longed absence.  They  were  to  remain  a  week  in  New 
York,  then  journey  to  Washington,  linger  there  another 
week,  and  then  return  at  their  leisure — the  whole  absence 
not  to  extend  over  the  first  honeymoon  month. 

Mr.  Barstone  took  his  bride  to  his  favorite  hotel  on 
Broadway  and  installed  her  in  his  old  apartments. 

There,  in  that  same  sunny  parlor,  he  and  his  bride  took 
their  first  tete-a-tete  breakfast  where  he  had  sat,  scarcely 
eight  months  before,  reading  that  heap  of  dainty  billets 
from  twenty  unknown  young  ladies. 

"To  think  that  it  was  my  wife  I  was  advertising  for, 
after  all  !  "  said  George,  as  he  related  the  little  coincidence 
to  Magdalen.  "  To  think  that,  out  of  the  twenty  I  should 
have  selected  Magdalen  Wayne,  never  dreaming  I  was  se- 
lecting my  wife  !     Extraordinary,  wasn't  it  ?  '* 

Magadalen  laughed  good-naturedly. 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  By  what  I  have  heard, 
from  Fanny  and  others,  I  should  judge  you  had  rather  an 
inflammable  heart,  Mr.  Barstone,  and  one  very  easily 
ignited.  Probably  the  other  nineteen  young  ladies  were 
as  pretty  as  they  said  they  were  ;  and,  no  doubt,  had  you 
chosen  any  one  of  them,  the  result  would  have  been  the 
same  as  it  is." 

"  I  don't  believe  it !  "  said  George.  "  Allah  is  great, 
and  my  time  had  come.  It  was  my  fate,  you  know  ;  and 
if  I  have  had  a  weakness  all  my  life,  it  has  been  for  blue- 
gray  eyes,  golden  tresses  and  the  name  of  Magdalen. 
Just  to  think,  the  last  time  I  breakfasted  here,  I  did  not 
know  you  !  Even  in  that  benighted  state,  I  was  tolerably 
happy  !  And  now  my  dear,  if  you  have  finished  breakfast, 
we'll  go  out.  No  doubt  New  York  has  altered  materially 
since  you  and  I  trod  the  pave  last." 

Magdalen  arose. 

"  I  thought  you  were  going  to  visit  your  cousin, 
George  ?  " 

"  All  in  good  time,  my  dear.  I  don't  suppose  Phil  is  up 
yet.  Always  was  the  quintessence  of  laziness — that  fel- 
low. His  business  will  keep  ;  and,  just  now,  I  want  to 
give  you  a  drive  to  High  Bridge  in  this  glorious  January 
sunshine." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barstone  took  their  drive  and  returned  to 


AT  THE  OPERA.  107 

a  four  o'clock  dinner.  Then  the  happy  bridegroom, 
having  enjoyed  his  after-dinner  cigar  and  slightly  changed 
his  dress,  bestowed  an  ortliodox  honeymoon  embrace  upon 
his  bride  and  set  off  to  hunt  np  liis  cousin  Phil. 

A  Broadway  omnibus  took  him  np  town  to  his  destina- 
tion. The  early  winter  dusk  was  hanging,  like  a  misty 
gray  veil,  over  the  stony  streets,  and  newly  lighted  lamps 
were  sparkling  as  he  reached  it.  Up  in  the  frosty  blue 
sky  the  earliest  stars  were  shining — earth  and  sky  were  us 
jubilant  as  his  own  heart,  and  the  bracing  air  was  like  ex- 
hilarating champagne. 

And  Mr.  George  Barstone,  after  ringing  Doctor  Master- 
son's  office  bell,  hummed  the  fag-end  of  one  of  Tom 
Moore's  jovial  melodies  while  he  waited  : 

They  may  rail  at  this  life  ;  from  the  hour  I  began  it 
I  found  it  a  life  full  of  kindness  and  bliss  ; 

And  until  you  can  show  me  some  happier  planet. 
More  social  and  bright,  I'll  content  me  with  this  ! 

And  just  here  the  door  opened  and  a  boy  in  buttons 
stood  gazing  contemplatively  at  Mr.  Barstone,  with  a  face 
that  said,  plainer  than  words  :  "  You're  a  nice  patient — 
you  are — singing  on  the  doctor's  doorstep  !  " 

'^  Doctor  Materson  in  ?"  asked  Mr.  Barstone. 

<<  Xo — sick — chronic  rheumatism,"  tersely  responded  the 
boy  in  buttons. 

"  Doctor  Barstone,  then  ?  "  pursued  the  inquirer. 

The  boy  in  the  buttons  nodded  and  held  the  door  open 
for  Mr.  Barstone  to  pass  through,  turned  the  handle  of 
another  door,  nodded  mysteriously  again  and  vanished. 

''What  a  sagacious  youth!"  thought  George,  admir- 
ingly. "  How  I  should  like  to  own  him  !  I  wonder  if 
any  one  has  been  telling  him  speech  is  silver  and  silence  is 
gold  ?  And  I  wonder  if  Phil  has  soul  enough  to  appreci- 
ate him  ?  Ah,  here's  Phil,  absorbed  in  a  big  book,  taking 
his  learned  leisure.     Phil,  old  fellow,  how  goes  it  ?  " 

Mr.  George  Barstone  followed  up  the  remark  by  a  play- 
ful, sledge-hammer  slap  on  the  shoulder,  and  the  young 
man  sitting  before  the  fire,  in  smoking  cap,  slippers  and 
dressing-gown,  rose  up  and  faced  him. 

"How  are  you,  George?"  said  this  young  man,  with 
ineffable  calm.     "  When  did  you  arrive  ?" 

He  waved  his  slender  white  hand  toward  a  chair,  as  he 


108  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

spoke,  and  re-seated    himself,    after   carelessly    shaking 
hands. 

He  was  an  uncommonly  self-possessed  young  doctor, 
with  cool  gray  eyes  and  a  thin,  sallow  face — eyes  and  face 
unlike  George's — and  yet  the  two  somehow  bore  a  striking 
resemblance  to  one  another. 

''You're  married,  I  suppose  ?"  inquired  Doctor  Philip 
Barstone,  calmly  contemplating  his  cousin  ;  "and on  the 
first  stage  of  honeymoon — immersed  to  the  eyes  in  the  joys 
of  wedlock,  and  in  a  state  of  idiotic  happiness,  no  doubt  ?  " 

"Yes,  I'm  married,  Phil,"  replied  George,  briskly,  "and 
to  the  dearest  and  loveliest  girl  in  the  universe  !  Ah,  you 
wait  until  you  see  her,  Phil  !  There  isn't  her  like  in  the 
whole  world  ! " 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Phil,  languidly,  "I  expected 
that  and  more.  What's  the  name  again  ?  You  told  me 
and  Fanny  told  me,  but,  really,  I  have  a  wretched  memory 
for  names." 

"  Her  name  was  Wayne — Magdalen  Wayne,"  said  George, 
with  some  hesitation. 

"  Ah,  yes  ;  I  recollect.  From  the  country  some- 
where ?  " 

*' From  New  Hampshire." 

"  And  where  is  she  now  ?  " 

"  At  the  St.  Nicholas.  We  only  arrived  late  last  even- 
ing and  I  thought  it  useless  to  try  and  hunt  you  up  sooner. 
I  say,  Phil,  wasn't  it  rather  shabby  of  you  not  strain  a 
point  and  come  down  to  the  wedding  ? " 

"  Couldn't  possibly,"  said  Doctor  Philip,  beginning  to 
pare  his  nails  ;  "the  old  man's  laid  up  by  the  legs  and 
likely  to  be  laid  up  for  a  month  to  come.  All  the  patients 
are  consequently  thrown  on  my  hands,  and  I  may  safely 
inform  you  I  have  my  hands  full.  I  really  don't  remem- 
ber a  season  when  our  business  was  brisker." 

Just  here  the  door  bell,  which  had  jingled  twice  since 
George's  entrance,  jingled  again,  and  the  boy  in  buttons 
thrust  in  his  head. 

"  Sudden  case,  sir — you're  wanted  right  off.  Old  Mrs. 
Branch  is  in  fits — black  in  the  face,  and  at  the  last  gasp, 
the  girl  says  ;  and  now  here's  a  boy  says  his  father's  just 
been  brought  home  on  a  shutter,  with  his  back  and  one 
leg  broke,  down  on  First  Avenue,  and  you  are  to  go 
immediately." 


AT  THE  OPERA.  109 

'*  That  will  do,  Samnel,"  said  Doctor  Barstone,  blandly  ; 
"  depart,  and  shut  the  door.  Tell  them  I'll  go.  My  dear 
George,  don't  hurry  yourself — it's  only  fifteen  minutes 
since  1  ate  my  dinner,  and  I  always  take  an  hour- after 
meals  to  myself,  no  matter  how  rushing  business  may  be. 
Sit  down  and  let  us  have  a  comfortable  chat.  1  always 
find  a  nice  quiet  t6te-d-t6te  condncive  to  digestion — don't 
you?" 

George  Barstone  stared  at  his  cousin  in  horror. 

*'  Good  heavens,  Phil,  what  a  cold-blooded  reptile  you're 
getting  to  be  !  Why  in  pity's  name  don't  you  go  to  those 
poor  unfortunates  and  relieve  them,  if  you  can,  at  once  ? 
They  talk  about  laAvyers  having  hard  hearts  and  stony 
consciences,"  pursued  the  Millford  barrister,  ''  but  I'll  be 
hanged  if  they're  not  unweaned  lambs — sucking  doves — 
compared  to  you  of  the  medical  fraternity  !  " 

"Really!"  responded  the  young  doctor,  in  the  same 
state  of  ineffable  calm  ;  "  is  that  your  opinion  ?  Well, 
perhaps  we  do  get  a  trifle  hardened  after  awhile  ;  but  then, 
it's  only  natural,  my  dear  boy — just  like  soldiers  on  the 
battlefield,  you  know.  Don't  let  us  talk  about  it.  How 
is  Aunt  Lydia  ?  " 

"  Much  better,  and  very  much  disappointed  at  not 
seeing  you." 

"  And  Fanny  ?  But,  of  course,  Fanny  is  well.  The 
amount  of  innate  vitality  that  girl  possesses  is  absolutely 
astonishing.  If  you  could  see  the  letters  she  writes  me  ! 
I  never  read  them  now — I  glance  here  and  there,  catch  her 
meaning,  and  send  an  answer,  once  a  month,  of  ten  lines. 
Miss   Wayne  was  her  governess  ?     Of  course  she's  very 

Eretty — this  new  cousin  of  mine  ?  And  when  am  I  to  see 
er  ?  " 
'*  To-night,  if  you  come  to  the  opera.  Magdalen  has 
never  yet  been  to  the  Italian  opera,  and  she  has  a  passion 
for  music.  And  as  you  won't  go  see  those  unlucky 
patients  of  yours  while  I  stay  gossiping  with  you  here,  I'll 
just  take  myself  off  at  once.  Drop  in  to  see  Lucrezia 
Borgia  and  you  will  see  mv  pretty  little  wife  at  the  same 
time." 

"  I  hope  there  is  no  similarity  !  "  muttered  Doctor  Bar- 
stone. "  Why  will  you  persist  in  being  in  such  a  hurry, 
George,  when  I  tell  you  I  shall  not  leave  for  twenty 
minutes  yet  ?    However,  as  you   will   persist,   until   to- 


110  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

night,  good-by.  Best  regards  to  the  pretty  Magda* 
len!" 

George  Barstone  departed,  and  Philip  Barstone,  seating 
himself  in  his  easy  chair,  smoked  out  a  cigar  and  gazed 
placidly  into  the  fire.  He  had  very  little  curiosity  to  see 
this  new  cousin  of  his,  very  little  opinion  of  George's  taste 
or  sound  sense  in  feminine  matters,  and  he  rarely  got  ex- 
cited about  anything.  The  world  came  and  the  world 
,vent,  and  Philip  Barstone,  JM.D.,  slid  along  with  it,  up 
and  down,  and  never  got  out  of  his  torpid  langor  for  any- 
thing under  the  sun. 

His  cigar  finished,  the  young  physician  arose,  donned 
his  hat  and  greatcoat,  and  entered  his  waiting  gig,  to 
make  his  evening  round  of  his  patients.  It  was  late  when 
he  returned,  and  then  there  was  a  light  supper  to  be  par- 
taken of,  and  his  dress  to  change,  ere  he  sallied  forth  to 
the  Academy. 

It  was  near  the  close  of  the  second  act  when  Philip  Bar- 
stone made  his  way  easily  into  one  of  the  stage  boxes,  in 
great  style — very  elegant  and  nonchalant  and  handsome. 

Two  young  men  occupied  the  box  alone,  and  both 
greeted  the  newcomer  with  friendly  nods. 

"  How  are  you,  Barstone  ?  "  one  of  them  said.  "  Late, 
as  usual  !  Working  like  a  horse,  no  doubt.  Hollis  and  I 
have  been  holding  an  animated  controversy  about  you. 
Did  you  know  your  double — your  wraith — was  in  the 
house  ?  Look  yonder !  Like  enough  to  be  your  twin 
brother !  Hollis  swore  it  was  you,  with  the  moustache 
and  imperial  shaved  off,  but  I  knew  better," 

The  young  man  pointed  to  an  opposite  box,  and  ran  on  : 

"  You  must  know  the  fellow — he  looks  so  absurdly  like 
you.  And  the  pretty,  azure-eyed,  alabaster-browed  maiden 
bv  his  side — '  the  Fair  One,  with  the  Golden  Locks' — who 
is  she  ?  " 

Doctor  Philip  Barstone  glanced  across,  carefully  adjust- 
ing his  lorgnette. 

"  My  cousin  George,  I  take  it,  and  his  bride.  I  haven't 
had  a  look  at  her  yet.     He  says  she's  pretty." 

''  She's  more  than  pretty,"  said  Hollis,  who  had  been 
indulging  himself  in  a  prolonged  stare ;  '*  there  isn't  a 
lovelier  face  in  the  house.  That  amber  hair  is  magnifi- 
cent ;  she  holds  her  head  with  the  poise  of  a  queen  ;  and 
she  has  a  mouth  like  one  of  Corregio's  smiling  angels  I  '* 


AT  THE  OPERA.  lU 

Mr.  Frederic  Hollis  was  an  artist  and  a  poet,  and  had  a 
right  to  rapturize  if  he  chose. 

Doctor  Philip  Barstone  raised  his  glass  and  brought  it 
to  bear  on  the  opposite  box.  An  instant,  and  he  had 
given  a  sharp  start,  a  sudden  recoil,  and  dropped  the 
glass,  his  face  growing  ashen  gray. 

"  Hallo  ! "  cried  the  young  man  who  had  first  addressed 
him.  "  What  is  it  ?  Did  you  see  the  Marble  Guest,  Bar- 
stone  ?  " 

Philip  Barstone's  emotions  were  well  under  rein.  An 
instant,  and  he  was  his  cool,  negligent  self  again — a 
thought  paler,  only. 

*'  I  saw  a  face  I  didn't  expect  to  see,  in  looking  for  my 
unknown  cousin."  He  raised  his  glass  again  as  he  spoke. 
•'You're  right,  Hollis.  Mrs.  George  Barstone  is  a 
beauty." 

He  lowered  his  lorgnette,  and  turned  to  the  stage.  The 
curtain  was  dropping  on  the  second  act  of  the  wonderful 
opera. 

*'  I  believe  I'll  step  over  and  pay  my  respects.  They're 
just  from  the  country,  and  it  is  no  more  than  common 
decency  requires  to  do  the  polite  tiling  by  one's  relatives — 

Jarticularly  when  one  of  them  is  uncommonly  handsome, 
never  gave  George  credit  for  such  good  taste." 

Magdalen  was  lying  back  in  her  chair,  talking  anima- 
tedly  to  her  husband,  and  looking  brilliantly  handsome. 
An  opera  cloak,  blue  as  her  eyes,  set  off  the  pearly  com- 
plexion and  gold-tinted  hair,  and  excitement  had  sent  a 
streaming  fire  into  those  starry  eyes  and  a  lovely  flush  to 
the  rounded  cheeks.  There  was  a  steady  fire  of  lorgnettes 
aimed  at  their  box — at  the  noble  and  lovely  head,  all  un- 
known ;  but  Magdalen  was  completely  unconscious  of  this 
embarrassing  circumstance.  Slie  glanced  over  her  slioul- 
der,  radiant  and  sparkling,  as  Philip  came  in,  and  recog- 
nized her  husband's  cousin  at  once. 

George  nodded,  and  went  off-handedly  through  the  for- 
mula of  introduction  : 

"  Phil,  my  wife.  Magdalen,  my  dear,  my  cousin  Phil, 
of  whom  you  have  heard." 

*'  A  thousand  times  !"  said  Magdalen,  holding  out  her 

f  loved  hand,  with  a  brilliant  smile.     "  Cousin  Phil  is  a 
ousehold  word  at  Golden  Willows." 
**  How  eminently  self-possessed  she  is  I "  thought  Philip, 


113  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

watching  her  covertly,  with  half-closed  eyes.  '*  And,  by 
the  beard  of  the  prophet  !  what  an  astounding  resemblance 

there   is   to Oh,  pshaw  !  I   don't  want  to  think  of 

her  ! " 

Magdalen,  as  the  curtain  again  rose,  was  thinking  of 
him  likewise. 

The  opera  was  over  at  last.  Our  party  rose  with  the 
rest.  Dr.  Phil  saw  them  to  their  hack,  and  then  went 
on  his  own  homeward  way,  in  a  dazed  and  bewildered 
state. 

"  It  can't  be  possible  such  a  likeness  as  this  is  merely 
the  work  of  chance ;  and  now  I  remember  there  was  a 
sister  I  never  saw,  away  at  school.  This  girl  is  taller  and 
handsomer  than  she  was  ;  but  good  heaven  !  she  is  her 
very  image  !  There  was  a  look  in  the  eyes  of  G-eorge's 
wife,  once  to-night,  that  I  saw  in  her  eyes  on  that  last 
horrible  night  when  we  parted  forever.  I've  turned  over 
a  new  leaf,  and  I  don't  want  to  go  back  to  the  old  leaves  ; 
hut  if  Mrs.  George  Barstone  were  an  enemy  of  mine,  I 
think  I  should  be  obliged  to.  It's  all  nonsense,  I  dare 
say.  I  never  knew  any  one  by  the  name  of  Wayne,  and 
she  was  Miss  Magdalen  Wayne  when  George  married  her." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  MARK  ON  GEORGE'S  ARM. 

A  LENGTHY  string  of  carriages  drew  up,  this  frosty 
January  night,  before  the  stately  mansion  of  Mrs.  More- 
land,  on  New  York's  stateliest  avenue. 

Mrs.  Moreland  was  ''  at  home  "  to  her  dear  five  hundred 
friends  ;  and  the  gas  flared  high  over  "  lovely  women  and 
brave  men,"  and  the  heavenly  melody  of  wild,  melancholy, 
German  waltz  music  floated  and  filled  the  perfumed  rooms. 
It  was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  affairs  of  the  season,  and 
everybody  that  was  anybody  was  there. 

Among  "  the  rest— fashionably  late,  most  fastidiously 
attired,  handsome,  easy,  nonchalant — lounged  in  Dr. 
Philip  Barstone  ;  he  was  eminently  popular,  this  rapidly 
rising  young  practitioner,  among  the  fairer  sex,  and,  per- 
haps, his  white  teeth,  dark  hazel  eyes,  faultless  mannera 


THE  MARK  ON  GEORGE'S  ARM.  113 

and  well-shaped  nose  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  it.  Ho 
lounged  in  about  midnight,  paid  his  respects  to  Madam 
Moreland,  and  took  up  his  position  against  a  slender 
column  to  reconnoiter. 

"Fair  beauties  in  blue,  dark  beauties  in  pink  and 
yellow,  dashing  damsels  in  all  the  hues  of  the  rainbow, 
and  timid  little  angels  in  snowy  gauze  and  drooping  ring- 
lets," mused  Doctor  Philip,  surveying  the  glittering  spec- 
tacle, and  taking  stock.  "There  are  heiresses  among 
those  radiant  young  ladies,  worth  half  a  million,  I  dare 
say,  and  tlie  thing  for  me  to  do  would  be  to  marry  one  of 
them,  and  range  myself,  and  repent,  and  atone.  As  if  I 
could  ever  atone  !  And  that  reminds  me,  it  was  to  see 
George  and  his  wife  I  came  here  to-night,  and — ah  !  there 
she  is  !  and  there  is  nothing  else  half  so  lovely  under  the 
gas-light ! " 

It  was  Magdalen — a  glittering  bride-like  figure,  in  rich 
white  silk,  under  white  lace — like  snow  under  silvery  mist 
— and  pearls  clasping  back  the  golden  dropping  tresses, 
and  clasping  the  dazzling  white  arms  and  neck — Magdalen 
Barstone,  beautiful  and  stately  as  a  queen. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  Philip  cried,  under  his  breath  ;  "  what  a 
radiant  vision  !  And,  heavens  above,  what  an  unearthly 
resemblance  to  one  dead  and  buried  !  I  must  hunt  up 
George  at  once  !  " 

He  turned  hastily  to  go,  and  encountered  his  friend  of 
the  opera  box,  staring  fixedly  at  the  dazzling  bride. 

"  All  HoUis  !  "  with  a  cool  nod,  "  turned  astronomer  ? 
lost  in  admiration  of  the  Evening  Star  ?" 

"  What  a  lucky  fellow  your  country  cousin  is,  Phil," 
said  Hollis,  regretfully.  *'  There  stands  my  ideal — the 
divinity  I  have  been  worshiping  in  dreams  all  my  life,  and 
lo  !  her  earthly  name  is  Mrs.  Barstone  !  I  would  give  half 
the  fortune — I  haven't  got — for  such  a  model  for  my  new 
picture — my  '  Aphrodite  Rising  from  the  Sea.'  Ah,  it's 
a  thousand  pities  she's  another  man's  wife  ! " 

"So  it  is  !  The  goods  of  this  lower  world  are  unfairly 
divided.     Apropos — have  you  seen  that  '  other  man  ? ' " 

"  You'll  find  him  below  there,  dancing  ;  he  has  been  at 
it  incessantly  since  I  came  in." 

The  two  men  parted — the  artist  making  his  way  to 
where  Magdalen  stood,  the  center  of  an  admiring  cir- 
cle,   and    Philip    finding    George  just   resting  himself^ 


114  MAGDALEN'S  VOW, 

very  red  and  tired,  and  mopping  his  face  after  a  frantic 
galop.    . 

"  Harder  work  than  breaking  stones  on  the  road,  by 
George  ! "  said  the  Millford  lawyer,  linking  his  arm  through 
his  cousin's,-  and  walking  him  off.  '•  Ilow  they  stand  it, 
the  goodness  only  knows!  We  are  fearfully  and  wonder- 
fully made — particularly  women.  They  call  them  the 
weaker  sex  ;  but  I'll  be  hanged  if  the  weakest  of  them, 
can't  dance  down  the  strongest  man  here  !  How  is  it : 
You're  a  doctor,  and  ought  to  know  !  " 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  understand  the  marvelous  sex,  if  I 
s,m  a  doctor.  If  I  did,  I  might  comprehend  why  the  pret- 
hiest  woman  I  ever  saw  has  thrown  herself  away  upon  you." 

Mr.  George  Barstone,  red  and  radiant  enough  already, 
turned  yet  more  radiant,  hearing  this.  Where  his  blue- 
jyed  wife  was  concerned,  the  big  Millfordian  was  open  to 
flattery  as  the  veriest  schoolboy. 

"  She  is  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes — I  believe  that's  how 
the  novels  put  it,"  went  on  the  artful  young  doctor. 
*'  That  fellow  Ilollis — an  artist,  you  know — raves  about 
her,  and  I  left  her  holding  a  little  court  of  all  that  is  best 
at  this  crush.  Has  she  any  sisters,  and  if  so,  how  many  ? 
and  are  those  sisters  unmarried  ?  and  would  they  be  likely 
to  look  twice  on  a  rising  young  physician,  of  unexception- 
able manners  and  morality  ?  " 

Doctor  Philip  paused  in  his  little  catechism,  and  George 
laughed — his  big,  booming,  honest  laugh — a  trifle  too  loud, 
but  melodious. 

"  Sisters  ?  No  ;  my  pretty  Magdalen  stands  alone  in 
the  wide  world,  and  I  am  selfish  enough  to  be  glad  of  it. 
She  has  neither  father,  mother,  sister  nor  brother, — '' 
Mr.  Barstone  checked  himself  with  a  sudden  pull  up.  He 
recollected  the  convict  brother  of  Magdalen's  story,  and 
winced  under  the  recollection — "  none  at  least,"  in  a  very 
subdued  tone,  "  that  ever  I  saw." 

Doctor  Philip  noticed  the  mental  reservation  at  once. 

"■  She  may  have,  for  all  that — hey  ?" 

"  I  believe  there  is  a  brother — a  wild  young  fellow- 
Magdalen  has  not  seen  him  for  years.  There  must  be  a 
black  sheep  in  every  flock,  I  siippose,  and  he  is  the  black 
sheep  of  hers.     It's  an  unpleasant  subject — let's  drop  it  \" 

"  With  all  my  heart  !  And  the  remainder  of  Mrs.  Bar- 
stone's  relatives  are  dead  ?  '* 


THE  MARK  ON  GEORGE'S  ARM.  115 

"  Every  one  !  There's  a  little  niece,  I  believe,  lives  with 
an  old  nurse,  somewhere  up  in  New  Hanipsliire,  in  the 
family  homestead.  She  goes  there  sometimes — Magdalen 
does — but  that's  all." 

"A  little  niece  ?  The  daughter  of  the  family  scape- 
goat, I  take  it  ?  " 

"No,  the  daughter  of  my  wife's  only  sister." 

The  gray  pallor  that  had  darkened  Philip  Barstone's  face 
at  the  opera  crept  slowly  over  it  from  brow  to  chin. 

"  A  sister  ?  She  has  a  sister  dead,  then — an  only 
sister  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  George  gravely  ;  *'  her  story  is  a  very  sad 
one.  My  poor  little  girl  has  had  hard  family  trials  to  en- 
dure in  her  short  life.  She  told  me  her  history,  poor 
child  !  before  she  would  consent  to  marry  me  ;  a  pitiful 
history  of  the  wrongs  and  wrong-doing  of  others,  and  we 
agreed  not  to  talk  of  it.  When  you  are  speaking  to  Mag- 
dalen, don't  allude  to  her  family  or  question  her  about 
her  relatives.     The  subject,  to  her,  is  a  very  painful  one," 

There  was  no  reply.  That  sickly,  grayish  hue  lay  on 
the  doctor's  face  like  a  palpable  cloud  ;  his  lips  were  dry, 
and  his  voice,  when  he  did  speak,  was  husky. 

"  Was  the  brother  of  your  wife  ever  in  New  York, 
George?"  he  asked.  "It  strikes  me  I  have  seen  a  face 
somewhere  strangely  like  hers.  I  knew  a  fellow  here  once, 
resembling  her  sufficiently  to  be  her  twin  brother." 

"  Not  unlikely,"  said  George  ;  "  I  dare  say  you  knew 
him.  He  was  rather  in  your  line  at  that  time,  I  believe. 
How  long  ago  is  it  ?  " 

"  Four  years,  or  thereabouts." 

"  Ah,  that's  the  time  ;  you  were  riding  the  high  horse 
then,  and  he  was  mounted  on  a  similar  lofty  quadruped. 
I  dare  say  you  knew  him.     '  Birds  of  a  feather,'  etc." 

"I  can't  say.  The  fellow  I  knew,  if  he  was  really  her 
brother,  must  have  gone  under  an  assumed  name.  He 
called  himself  Allward — William  Allward." 

"  Hush  !  for  pity's  sake  !  "  George  Barstone  grasped  his 
arm,  and  looked  behind  in  dismay.  "  I  would  not  have 
Magdalen  hear  you  for  worlds  !  You  have  no  idea  how 
she  feels  on  this'subjeot.  Tliat  was  her  brother  " — lower- 
ing his  voice — "do  you  know  his  fate  ?" 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Doctor  Philip,  carelessly  ;  "he  com- 
mitted forgery,  and  got  sent  up  for  four  years.    By  the  way. 


116  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

his  time  ought  to  be  about  served  out.  You'll  be  havirig^ 
a  visit  from  him,  one  of  these  days,  I  suspect.  My  dear 
George,  haven't  you  rather  dropped  into  a  hornet's 
nest  ?  " 

"  My  wife  is  an  angel  ! — more  perfect  in  soul  than  in 
body!"  George  said,  hotly.  ''Take  you  care,  Phil! 
Even  you  might  say  a  word  too  much  !  " 

"  Dear  old  George,  don't  be  in  such  a  hurry  flourishing 
your  cudgels  ;  I  won't  say  that  one  superfluous  word. 
Without  having  the  same  safe  grounds  to  go  upon  you  have, 
I  am  ready  to  swear,  by  all  the  gods  and  goddesses,  Mrs. 
Barstone  is  perfection,  only  a  little — just  a  little — unfor- 
tunate in  her  relatives.  Still,  it  can  hardly  be  the  same. 
This  Willie  Allward  had  a  sister  living  here  in  New  York 
at  that  time — he  told  me  about  her — living  with  some 
worthless  fellow — a  professional  gambler — more  than  sus- 
pected of  having  another  wife." 

George  reddened,  half  in  anger,  half  in  shame. 

"  That  is  the  sister  I  spoke  of.  She  is  dead  and  buried 
now,  and  the  little  niece  is  her  child." 

"She  left  a  child,  then  ?"  very  slowly. 

"  She  did  !  How  in  the  name  of  heaven,  Philip  Bar- 
stone,  have  you  wormed  this  story  out  of  me  ?  I  promised 
Magdalen  faithfully  I  wouldn't  tell,  and  see  how  I  keep 
my  word  ! " 

"  Pshaw  !     It's  no  secret.     Does  Aunt  Lydia  know  ?*' 

"  Yes." 

"  Your  wife  was  honest,  at  all  events,  to  tell  you.  Many 
girls  would  have  tried  to  gloss  over  such  a  history.  You 
say  she  feels  deeply  the  family  disgrace  ?  " 

"  More  deeply  than  I  can  tell  you.  The  subject  is  un- 
utterably painful  to  her,  and  God  grant  she  may  never 
meet  the  man  who  wrought  all  the  wrong." 

"  There  would  be  a  scene,  no  doubt,"  Doctor  Philip 
said,  coolly.  "  I  should  take  her  to  be  a  good  hater.  But 
she  is  hardly  likely  to  meet  him,  I  should  say,  or  know 
him  if  she  did  meet  him,  after  all  these  years.  She  must 
have  been  a  child,  almost,  four  years  ago  ?" 

"  She  was  sixteen  years  old.  And  now,  Philip  Barstone, 
have  the  goodness  to  finish  at  once  and  forever  with  this 
subject.  One  would  think  I  was  on  the  witness-stand,  and 
you  were  the  o])posite  counsel." 

The  doctor  laughed  softly. 


THE  MARK  ON  GEORGE'S  ARM.  117 

**  Dear  old  boy  !  how  sensitive  you  arc  growing  I  Have 
no  fear  of  my  discretion— I  will  be  the  last  man  alive  to 
rake  up  the  dead  ashes  of  the  past ;  and,  in  token  of  my 
cousinly  regard,  I  am  going  to  ask  Mrs.  George  Barstone 
for  the  'german.'  " 

Mrs.  Moreland's  ball  was  a  brilliant  success,  and  the 
queenly  bride  of  the  Millford  lawyer  the  undisputed  belle 
of  the  night.  Doctor  Philip  Barstone  did  her  the  hoior 
of  asking  "her  to  dance  more  than  once  ;  hut,  rather  to  his 
chagrin,  Mrs.  George  was  either  engaged,  or  too  much 
fatigued  for  quadrilles  and  round  dances.  She  only 
danced  with  her  husband. 

"  I  can't  like  him,"  Magdalen  said  to  herself  ;  "■  and  I 
don't  know  why  ?  lie  is  George's  cousin,  and  I  ought  to 
like  him  for  that  reason  alone  ;  but  I  don't  !  There's  a 
look  in  those  keen  eyes  of  his  that  repels  me,  and  an 
expression  around  his  mouth  sometimes  that  is  simply 
odious." 

Mrs.  George  Barstone  spent  a  very  delightful  night,  de- 
spite this  little  drawback.  It  was  her  first  ball,  and,  with 
the  consciousness  of  looking  her  best  and  being  fault- 
lessly dressed,  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  enjoyment  of  the 
hour,  and  was  celestially  happy. 

It  was  very  charming  to  be  sought  after  by  all  the  best 
men  in  the  room,  and  to  see  George's  eyes  sparkling  with 
the  knowledge  that  his  wife  was  the  prettiest  woman  at 
the  ball. 

"  I  always  knew  you  were  the  loveliest  thing  under  the 
sun,  Mrs.  Barstone,"  George  said  to  her,  his  honest  face 
one  radiant  glow  ;  "  but  I  didn't  know  other  people  would 
find  it  out  at  first  sight.  I'm  glad  to  see  there  is  good 
taste  still  left  in  New^York.  Are  you  aware  you  are  the 
reigning  belle  of  the  night  ?  " 

iMagdaleii  laughed  and  blushed. 

<*  Don't  talk  nonsense,  George  !  Do  you  know  I  am  ex- 
cessively tired,  after  five  hours'  consecutive  dancing  ?  If 
Fanny  were  only  here  now,  how  delighted  she  would  be, 
poor  child  !  The  music,  the  toilets,  this  endless  succession 
of  dances " 

''  And  Phil,"  put  in  George.  "  By  the  by,  I  forgot  to 
ask  you.     How  do  you  like  Phil  !  " 

"  Oh,  well  enough  !  Pray  don't  talk  while  waltzing, 
George.^ 


118  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

**  Well  enough/'  persisted  George;  *'is  that  all?  I 
was  surfe  yon  would  like  Phil/' 

"And  did  I  say  I  didn't?" 

"  Your  tone  implies  it.  And  then,  you  wouldn't  dance 
with  him." 

''  Well — I  was  engaged." 

"Not  all  times." 

"Tired,  then.  Don't  he  a  tease,  George!  Doctor 
Philip  Barstone  is  well  enough  ;  but  I  have  heard  Fanny 
singing  peans  in  his  praise  so  long  that  I  grew  to  expect 
isomething  seraphic,  and,  finding  him  only " 

Magdalen  paused,  provokingly. 

"  Only  what  ?  "  persisted  George. 

"  Only  a  tall  young  man,  very  like  any  other  tall  young 
man,  with  blond  hair  and  mustache.  I  am  a  little  dis- 
appointed, that  is  all.  Now,  suppose  we  drop  the  subject  ? 
Discussing  your  cousin  and  waltzing  at  this  rate  I  don't 
admire." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barstone  were  among  the  earliest  guests 
to  leave,  and  George,  who  had  danced  without  intermis- 
sion, found  himself,  at  four  a.  m.,  completely  pros- 
trated. 

"  Never  was  so  used  up  in  my  life  before,  by  Jove/' 
Mr.  Barstone  said  during  the  homeward  drive,  "  even  at  a 
Millford  picnic,  where  they  dance  on  the  grass  from  sun- 
rise to  sunset  !  I  expect  to  sleep  until  our  five  o'clock 
dinner,  to-day,  and  don't  you  presume  to  wake  me,  Mrs. 
Barstone  ! " 

"  It  has  been  a  charming  ball,"  Magdalen  answered 
nestling  cosily  in  her  wraps.  "  I  never  had  a  more  de- 
lighful  time." 

And  as  she  cuddled  up  by  her  devoted  slave's  side,  chat- 
ting gaily  of  the  ball  and  the  people  she  had  met  no  warn- 
ing chill  fell  upon  her  happy  heart  to  tell  her  it  was  the 
last  blissful  night  she  was  to  know  for  such  a  weary,  weary 
while. 

Mr.  Barstone  conscientiously  fulfilled  his  prediction  of 
sleeping  very  late  next  day.  The  noonday  sun  streaming 
brightly  in  awoke  Magdalen,  who  arose  at  once  and  made 
her  toilet.  She  sang  as  she  dressed,  gay  little  scraps  of 
songs,  for  very  lightness  of  heart,  and  smiled  back  at  her 
own  fair  image  in  the  glass.  She  knew  she  was  pretty,  of 
course.     Was  not  that  a  lovely  vision,  a  beautiful,  youth- 


THE  MARK  ON  GEORGE'S  ARM.  119 

fnl  face,  that  shone  upon  lier  in  tlie  tall  mirror,  encircled 
with  that  brigiitost  nimbus  of  golden  hair  ? 

"  1  am  glad  I  am  pretty,  fur  (jieorge's  sake,"  she  said, 
blushing  brightly  there  by  herself — "dear  George^— dear, 
kind,  devoted  George,  who  loves  the  very  ground  1  walk 
on,  and  who  shows  it,  in  the  honesty  of  his  great  heart,  as 
simply  as  a  child.  Ah  !  what  a  happy  girl  lam,  and  how 
thankful  1  ought  to  be  !" 

She  had  finished  her  toilet,  and  stood  looking  at  hei 
sleeping  husband.  And,  tliough  the  great  gray  eyes  were 
dim  with  thankful  tears,  Magdalen  could  iiardly  resist 
laughing,  too  ;  for  poor  George  was  asleep,  with  his  mouth 
wide  open,  and  his  fair  hair  all  tossed  and  rumpled,  and 
his  head  twisted  into  a  position  exquisitely  uncomfortable, 
even  to  look  at. 

"■  And  to  think,"  the  smiling  bride  said,  inwardly, 
**that  Rachel  could  mistake  him  for  Maurice  Langley  !" 

She  had  almost  forgotten  her  old  nurse's  incredible  an- 
nouncement on  her  wedding  day,  but  it  came  back  to  her 
now.  At  the  same  instant,  like  a  flash  of  light,  came 
another  recollection. 

"  The  mark  on  Maurice  Langley's  arm  !  1  iiad  quite 
forgotten  that  !  Aii  !  1  can  easily  prove  liachel's  mistake 
now."' 

George's  left  arm  hung  loosely  over  the  clothes.  Very 
lightly,  very  skilfully,  and  smiling  at  her  own  little  plot, 
she  undid  the  button  and  daintily  drew  up  the  sleeve. 
The  arm,  white  as  her  own  antl  corded  like  an  athlete's, 
was  really  sui)erb,  reviewed  as  a  limb  in  tlie  abstract :  but 
Magdalen  stood  holding  it,  with  an  awful  change  coming 
over  her. 

Rigid  siie  stood,  her  eyes  dilating,  every  drop  of  blood 
slowly  leaving  her  face. 

For  there,  between  wrist  and  elbow,  was  the  very  tat- 
tooing Rachel  had  described  so  minutely.  The  blue 
wreath  of  leaves  and  grapes,  the  red  heart  with  the  dag- 
ger thrust  through,  and  the  big,  black  initial  ''B." 

The  arm  dropp(^d  from  her  frozen  fingers  and  fell,  and 
still  the  sleeper  did  not  awake.  And  Magdalen  stood 
there,  as  if  slowJy  turning  to  stoue. 


130  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  CUKSED   WITH  THE   CURSE  OP  AN   ACCOMPLISHED 
PRATER." 

It  was  three  hours  later. 

Magdalen  Barstone  sat  by  her  parlor  window  in  the 
great  li£>tel,  looking  blankly  out  into  the  street  below. 
She  was  scarcely  thinking— she  was  scarcely  suffering: 
She  sat  benumbed— motionless— like  one  who  had  received 
a  great  and  stunning  blow. 

The  worst  had  come — the  worst  that  could  ever  happen. 
The  aim  of  her  life  was  accomplished— her  prayer  of  years 
had  been  heard— she  had  found  Maurice  Langley  ! 

George  Barstone  still  slept— slept  as  soundly  and  peace- 
fully, in  the  inner  room  3'onder,  as  some  tired  child.  This 
betrayer  of  innocent  girls,  this  tempter  of  weak  boys,  this 
utterly  vile  and  unprincipled  wretch,  could  still  sleep,  it 
seemed,  as  tranquilly  as  a  babe  on  its  mother's  breast. 
And  presently  he  would  wake,  Magdalen  knew,  smiling 
and  jovial  and  sweet-tempered,  with  loving  looks  and  car- 
esses for  her— for  her,  the  sister  of  Laura  All  ward  ! 

She  had  found  Maurice  Langley,  and  old  Rachel  was 
right,  after  all.  The  aim  of  her  life  was  realized.  She 
had  found  the  man  who  had  deceived  and  deserted  her 
sister,  and  sent  her  to  a  premature  grave  ;  who  had  broken 
her  father's  heart ;  who  had  made  a  forger,  a  gambler,  a 
convict  out  of  her  only  brother  !  She  had  found  the 
wretch  whom  she  had  vowed  to  hunt  mercilessly  down, 
and  that  man  was  her  husband  !  Her  prayer  for  venge- 
ance had  been  heard ;  it  only  remained  for  her  to  keep 
her  vow ! 

She  sat  there  while  the  short,  wintry  afternoon  wore  on, 
her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  her  dilated  eyes  staring 
straight  before  her  and  seeing  nothing.  Over  the  smaller 
troubles  of  life  Magdalen  could  weep  the  ever-ready  femi- 
nine tears  with  the  most  womanly,  but  she  had  no  tears 
now.  The  blue  eyes  had  a  dry,  unnatural  glitter  ;  two 
fever  spots  glowed  red  on  either  pale  cheek.     She  had 


"CURSE  OF  AN  ACCOMPLISHED  PRAYER."    191 

onlv  one  thought,  in  her  mind — one  dreadful  thought, 
heating,  beating,  in  her  brain — George  Barstone  and 
Maurice  Langley  were  one. 

Five  struck  from  the  city  clocks — the  gray  Jaiiuary 
dusk  was  veiling  tlie  ceaseless  city,  whose  roar  sounded 
in  the  girl's  dazed  brain  like  the  roaring  sea.  Stars  glit- 
tered above,  lamps  twinkled  below,  and  the  dinner  bell 
was  pealing  through  the  house  ;  George  would  wake,  and 
be  with  her  very  soon  now. 

She  arose  and  walked  over  to  the  glass,  with  a  woman's 
first  instinct — to  see  how  she  looked.  She  could  feel  the 
blank  despair  in  her  face  ;  she  could  see  it  in  the  gleam- 
ing eyes,  in  th.e  dry,  i)arched  lips,  in  the  hectic  glow  of 
either  cheek — a  strange,  niuiatural  face,  not  her  own. 

'•'  How  ghastly  I  am  ! "  she  thought,  "  What  a  wretch  I 
look  !  and,  oh,  pitiful  heaven  !  what  a  lost  wretch  I  am  ! " 

She  covered  her  face  with  both  hands,  and  stood  there 
doing  battle  with  her  despair. 

Through  all  her  dull  torpor  of  misery  there  flashed 
upon  her  the  conviction  that,  as  she  had  been  deceived, 
so  she  must  deceive  with  the  same  subtle  deception  of 
smiles  and  tender  words  that  had  lured  her  and  Laura  to 
their  doom — so  she  must  blind  and  betray  him — this 
matchless  betrayer  !  He  was  past  master  of  the  art  of 
guile  ;  he  had  listened  to  her  impassioned  story  of  wrong 
and  suffering,  knowing  himself  to  be  the  wretch  who  had 
wrought  her  ruin — the  wretch  against  whom  her  life  was 
vowed — and,  knowing  it,  had  smiled  in  her  face,  aiul  be- 
trayed her  as  Judas  had  betrayed — with  a  kiss  !  He  had 
v/i'onged  her  more  deeply  than  he  had  wronged  either 
Laura  or  "Willie — more  deeply  than  man  ever  wronged 
woman  before — and  now  her  time  had  come.  She  knew 
him  now,  and  she  must  hide  that  knowledge  and  work  in 
tlie  dark,  as  he  had  done. 

He  had  been  merciless  to  her,  and  to  all  whom  she  loved, 
and  merciless  he  would  find  her  now  ! 

"  He  loves  me  !  "  Magdalen  thought,  with  a  glow  of 
fierce  triumph  in  the  thought;  '*  he  loves  me — villain  that 
he  is — and  the  bitterest  blow  that  can  befall  him  will  be 
to  lose  me  !  I  would  leave  him  this  hour,  but  that  punish- 
ment would  be  too  slight !  I  hate  him  !  I  hate  him  ! 
The  mean,  mean,  mean  scoundrel  !" 

Her  eyes  flashed  ;  her  hands  clenched.      She  did  hate 


122  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

him  in  that  moment,  and  could  have  gone  resolutely  forth 
and  left  him  forever ;  but  the  reaction  was  yet  to  come. 
She  loved  the  man  she  hated— a  paradox,  if  you  like,  but 
no  uncommon  case — and  when  this  hot  rage  burned  itself 
out,  and  the  love,  that  was  as  deep  as  her  heart,  returned, 
then  her  cup  of  despair  would  be  at  its  fullest. 

She  stood  there,  rigid  and  cold,  while  the  evening  dusk 
deepened  and  the  chill  night  fell. 

She  could  hear  her  husband,  in  the  bedroom  adjoining, 
moving  noisily  about  splashing  water  and  rattling  basin 
and  ewer,  whiotling  an  air  from  last  night's  opera  the 
while. 

He  could  eat,  drink  and  be  merry,  and  Laura,  who  had 
loved,  even  as  she  loved  him,  lay  dead  and  forgotten  under 
this  winter  snow,  and  Willie's  place  among  good  and  hon- 
orable men  was  forever  lost. 

What  were  the  hearts  he  had  broken,  the  lives  he  had 
ruined,  to  him  ?  The  world  went  well  with  him,  men  re- 
spected him,  wealth  flowed  in  upon  him,  and  the  woman 
he  worshiped  was  his  wife.  Her  heart  grew  hard  and 
bitter  as  death  as  she  remembered  all. 

"  As  he  has  measurcii  unto  others,  so  shall  it  be  mea- 
sured unto  him  !  "  she  thought,  setting  her  teeth.  "  Oh, 
George  Barstone  !  in  all  God's  earth  is  there  another  such 
villain  as  you  ?  " 

The  bedroom  door  opened  as  she  lingered  rigidly  there, 
and  Mr.  George  Barstone  himself,  immaculately  dressed 
and  brushed  and  got  up,  stood  before  her. 

"  I  said  I  would  sleep  until  five  o'clock,  and  I've  slept 
until  six.  Ordinary  men  may  be  as  good  as  their  word, 
but  your  husband's  better,  Mrs.  Barstone.  I  don't. know 
how  it  may  be  with  you,  madam,  but  'natare's  sweet  re- 
storer,' etc.,  leaves  me  in  a  perfectly  ravenous  condition.  I 
feel  as  though  I  could  eat  a  boiled  alligator  this  moment, 
What  are  you  all  in  the  dark  for,  my  dear,  and  where 's 
Phil?" 

Mr.  Barstone  approached  his  wife  and  gave  her  a  sociable 
kiss.  Magdalen  drew  away  from  him,  shivering  from 
head  to  foot,  with  a  sick  feeling  of  repulsion. 

"Your  cousin?"  she  answered.  "'  I  don't  know;  he 
is  not  here." 

She  strove  to  speak  in  her  ordinary  tone,  to  begin  her 
new  role  at  once  ;  but  deception  and  falsity  in  any  shape 


"  CURSE  OF  AN  ACCOMPLISHED  PRAYER."     123 

were  foreign  to  the  girl's  nature,  and  her  voice  sonnded 
cold  and  hard. 

The  quick  instinct  of  love  detected  the  change  at  once. 
George  looked  at  her  curiously  in  the  dusk. 

"  What's  gone  wrong,  Magdalen  ?  taken  a  cold  ?  You 
look  like  a  stray  spirit — so  wliitc  ;  you  feel  like  one — so 
cold.  You  have  been  sitting  in  a  draught  until  you're  as 
hoarse  as  a  raven,  gazing  at  the  moon,  I'll  take  my  oath. 
As  if  a  respectable  married  woman  had  any  business  with 
the  moon.     Got  a  match  about  you,  my  love  ?  " 

"  No  ! " 

**  No  matter,  I've  got  one  myself  somewhere." 

Mr.  Barstone  lighted  the  gas,  and  turned  to  contem- 
plate his  wife  ;  but  Magdalen  was  standing  with  her  back 
to  him,  looking  out  at  the  lamp-lighted  boulevard,  and 
some  one  was  rapping  without. 

"  It's  Phil,  I  dare  say.  Come  in,"  cried  George,  and 
the  door  opened.  Doctor  Philip  made  his  appear- 
ance. 

"  Are  you  up  ?  "  Doctor  Philip  said.  "  I  was  afraid  to 
present  myself  sooner,  remembering  what  a  genius  you 
always  had  for  sleep.  Good-evening,  my  pretty  cousin. 
I  trust  I  see  you  none  the  worse  for  last  night's  dissipa- 
tion ?  " 

Magdalen  had  to  turn,  and  both  men  started  and  stared 
at  the  deadly  pallor  of  her  face. 

"  Good  gracious,  Magdalen  !  "  George  exclaimed,  "you 
are  as  white  as  thougli  you  were  your  own  ghost.  My 
darling,  are  you  ill  ?     What  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  Nothing  ! ''  Magdalen  said,  not  looking  at  him,  "  ex- 
cept that,  perhaps,  1  have  taken  cold  as  you  suggested, 
or  that  I  am  the  worse  for  last  night's  dissipation.  We 
country  girls,  Doctor  liarstone,  wilt  at  once  in  your  city 
glare. " 

She  turned  to  him.  She  knew  the  honest,  loving  eyes 
that  were  fixed  upon  her — honest  at  least  in  appearance, 
loving  beyond  doubt — and  she  could  not  meet  them.  All 
her  strength,  ami  her  hate,  and  lier  resolves  were  melting 
away  at  the  first  sound  of  his  voice,  at  the  first  touch  of 
his  hand.  For  oh  I  she  loved  him,  and  no  power  on  earth 
could  undo  that  love  now. 

'*  I  heard  you  say  a  moment  ago  you  were  famished, 
George,"  she  said,  trying  to  speak  lightly  and  turn  the 


124  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

attention  from  herself.       **Had  you   not   better  go  to 

dinner?  For  myself,  I  am  not  hungry.  I  will  have  a  cup 
of  tea  here,  and,  as  my  head  aches  a  little,  if  Dr.  Barstone 
will  excuse  me,  I  will  retire." 

Doctor  Barstone  bowed  gravely. 

"If  you  had  not  spoken  of  it,  in  my  professional  capa- 
city I  should  have  prescribed  it  myself.  My  dear  George, 
don't  look  as  though  you  had  heard  Mrs.  Barstone's  death- 
warrant  read.  It  is  the  very  best  thing  she  can  do.  If 
my  memory  serves  me,  you  invited  me  to  dine  with  you 
yesterday,  at  sharp  six,  and  now  it  is  half-past.  I  don't 
want  to  be  unpleasantly  intrusive,  but  allow  me  to  sug- 
gest that  my  time  is  not  my  own,  and  that  the  banquet 
waits  below.  Good-evening,  Mrs.  Barstone  ;  I  trust  to 
find  your  headache  altogether  gone  to-morrow  by  a  good 
night's  rest." 

He  led  George  away — George,  who  seemed  as  though 
he  would  rebel  and  stay  by  his  wife. 

Was  this  not  the  second  week  of  the  honeymoon,  and 
had  not  she  the  headache  ? 

What  were  all  the  dinners  that  ever  were  cooked  and 
eaten  inside  the  St.  Nicholas  to  this  devoted  and  eight 
hours'  fasting  husband  now  ? 

"  Don't  be  a  donkey,  George  !  "his  cousin  remonstrated  ; 
*'  she's  not  dying  and  she's  a  great  deal  better  without 
you.  A  cup  of  tea  and  rest  are  what  she  needs,  and  who's 
to  rest,  I  wonder,  with  you  tiptoeing  about,  in  your  horrid 
country-made,  creaking  boots,  and  that  face  of  blank 
despair.  Wait  until  you're  married  two  years  instead  of 
two  weeks,  and  though  your  wife  were  in  the  pangs  of 
dissolution,  vou'll  go  down  and  eat  your  dinner,  and  post- 
pone despair  until  after  the  cheese  and  toothpick.  If  you 
don't,  by  Jove  !  you'll  differ  from  all  the  husbands  I  ever 
had  the  pleasure  of  knowing." 

"I  shall  differ  from  them,"  George  responded,  crustily. 
*'  It's  been  your  misfortune,  Phil,  to  see,  all  your  life,  the 
worst  side  of  human  nature  uppermost,  until  you're  grown 
cynical  and  can't  believe  there's  any  better  side.  That 
day  will  never  come,  when  I  will  think  more  of  my  dinner 
than  of  my  wife." 

"With  all  my  heart,  I  don't  want  to  corrupt  your 
morals,  I'm  sure  ;  but  most  men  think  similarly  in  the 
honeymoon  and  afterwards  ;  but  you'll  call  me  cynical 


«  CURSE  OF  AN  ACCOMPLISHED  PRAYER."  125 

agaiu,  if  I  go  on.  Very  good  soup,  this,  eh  ?  Is  the 
pretty  Magdalon  subject  to  headaches,  may  I  ask  ?  " 

"  Never  knew  her  to  have  one  before  I"  George  mur- 
mured. "  Slie  doesn't  seem  like  herself  in  any  way, 
somehow,  this  evening.  It  must  liave  been  the  party  lust 
night." 

'*  No  doubt  ;  reaction  after  excitement,  and  all  that 
aort  of  thing.  By  the  bye,  isn't  yours  rather  an  obsolete 
way  of  spending  the  honeymoon  ?  I  thought,  when  a 
man  committed  matrimony,  the  correct  thing  to  do  was 
to  try  the  rural  dodge — bury  himself  in  some  nice,  dull 
country  village,  or  go  up  to  the  Catskills,  or  down  by  the 
sad  sea  waves.  My  ideas  on  the  subject  may  be  a  little 
misty,  never  having  tried  the  holy  estate ;  but  it  strikes 
me  that  coming  to  New  York  and  exhibiting  a  blushing 
bride  at  the  opera  and  Mrs.  Moreland's  evening  jams  is 
not  the  sort  of  thing  fashionable  society  prescribes." 

**  Fashionable  society  be  hanged  !  I've  brought  Mag- 
dalen to  New  Y'ork  because  we  have  enough  of  the  country 
the  year  round,  and  I  took  her  to  the  opera  because  music 
is  a  passion  with  her.  You  ought  to  hear  horsing — better 
than  the  prima  donna  last  night,  by  George,  sir  !  and  we 
went  to  Mrs.  Moreland's  party  because  Mrs.  Moreland 
insisted  upon  it,  and  my  dear  girl,  herself,  thought  she 
would  like  it." 

"  Ah,  yes  !  "  Phil  said,  pushing  away  his  soup  ;  "they 
all  like  it — and  the  more  they  get  of  it  tlie  better  they  like 
it.     How  long  do  you  propose  remaining  in  New  York  ?  " 

"This  week  only.  I  say,  Phil,  you  spoke  a  moment 
ago,  of  having  never  tried  matrimony.  Isn't  that  rather 
a  mistake  ?  " 

It  did  not  often  happen  to  Phil  Barstone  to  change 
color.  When  he  did  a  gray  shade  turned  his  sallow, 
colorless  face  the  hue  of  ashes.  That  gray  darkness  came 
palpably  over  it  now,  but  his  voice  was  quite  unaltered. 

"  My  dear  George,  yon  never  were  remarkable  for  great 
tact ;  but  even  from  you  I  didn't  expect  that  question.  I 
thought  we  botli  agreed,  four  or  five  years  ago,  to  become 
good  boys  and  let  bygones  be  bygones  ?  " 

"I  beg  your  pardon!"  George  said,  hastily;  ''but, 
my  dear  Phil,  why  don't  you  marry  ?  Very  best  thing 
you  can  do,  if — if  you're  quite  certain  that  party  is  dead. 

"  That  party  is  as  dead  as  Queen  Anne  !    I'll  thank 


126  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

you  not  to  mention  her  again,  Mf.  George  Barstone. 
Why  don't  I  marry  ?  My  dear  fellow,  I'm  looking  out  for 
a  wife  every  day." 

"  Well— and  are  they  so  scarce  in  New  York  that  yoa 
cannot  find  one  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  is  the  embarrassment  of  riches. 
I  know  fifty  girls  I  could  have  for  the  asking — all  very 
;iice  girls,  too,  you  understand — girls  of  the  period,  in 
short  skirts,  and  sweeping  trains,  and  wonderful  chignons, 
and  high-heeled  boots — girls  who  can  play  all  the  latest 
Wiiltzes  on  the  piano,  warble  all  the  newest  songs,  pepper 
their  conversation  with  well-pronounced  French,  and  talk 
to  you  of  women's  rights  and  the  last  popular  novel.  And 
then  there's  Fanny,  poor  little  thing,  been  dying  for  me 
any  time  these  two  years.  Oh,  yes,  George  ;  I  could  find 
a  wife  in  New  York  before  the  next  hour  strikes,  if  I 
chose." 

"  And  why  don't  you  choose  ?  Why  doesn't  the  Great 
Mogul  throw  the  handkerchief  to  his  adoring  slaves  ?" 

"  Because  there  is  one  requisite  none  of  these  nice  girls 
possess  which  is  absolutely  indispensable  in  my  wife — fifty 
thousand  dollars  in  her  own  right.  When  I  find  that 
golden  girl,  I  shall  fall  at  her  feet  at  once.  Still,  if  noth- 
ing better  offers  before  long —  My  innocent  country 
cousin,  don't  wear  that  disgusted  face ;  we  all  sell  our- 
selves in  these  latter  days.  There's  your  pretty  wife,  now  ; 
she  was  a  poor  governess.  You're  not  wealthy,  but  a 
well-to-do  and  good-looking  young  lawyer.  Who  is  to 
tell  us  she  didn't  marry  you  to  be  mistress  of  Golden  Wil- 
lows and  a  leader  of  fashion  among  the  elite  of  Millf ord  ?  " 

"  By  heaven,  Phil,  you're  too  bad  !  "  burst  out  George, 
with  flashing  eyes.  "  You're  a  worldling  and  a  cynic  to 
the  core — without  faith  in  man  or  woman  !  Why,  I  tell 
you,  sir,  she  refused  a  Goldham — Sam  Goldham,  worth 
h;df  a  million — worth  a  dozen  like  me,  as  you  look  at  it, 
I  tell  you  what,  I  should  take  it  as  an  insult  if  any  other 
fellow  suggested  such  a  thing  of  my  wife — the  best,  the 
most  generous,  most  noble-hearted " 

"  Spare  me  !  "  Doctor  Philip  pleaded.  "  Be  merciful  ! 
I'll  take  all  the  rest  for  granted.  I've  had  the  misfortune 
to  be  in  company  with  newly-married  men  before,  and  I 
know  the  litany  you're  chanting  by  heart.  Ah  !  here's 
that  boy  of  mine,  with  a  note.     Somebody's  dying,  or 


«  CURSE  OF  AN  ACCOMPLISHED  PRAYER."  127 

thinks  she  is  (of  course  it's  a  she — we  doctors  might  shut 
up  shop  only  for  the  women).  Samuel  unfold  thine 
errand." 

"Mrs.  Hatton — took  sudden — awful  bad — life  or  death, 
fellow  in  livery  says.  I've  run  till  I'm  tit  to  drop,  all  the 
way  from  the  ofl&ce  !" 

The  boy  in  buttons  delivered  a  note  as  bespoke,  looking 
unutterably  calm  and  composed. 

"  Fit  to  drop/'  repeated  his  master,  eying  that  expres- 
sionless face.  "  That  will  do,  Samuel  ;  don't  tell  any  more. 
Go  back,  and  say  to  tbe  fellow  in  livery  I'll  be  there  ; 
and  don't  hurt  yourself  running  if  you  can  help  it.  Mrs. 
Hatton — li'm — in  extremity  ?  Oh,  of  course  I  She'll  get 
over  it,  though  ;  they  always  do.  Half  of  these  women 
have  more  lives  than  a  cat !  I've  known  'em,  by  Jove ! 
George,  with  two  dozen  different  complaints  any  one  of 
which  would  kill  you  and  me  in  a  week  ;  and  they'll  live 
and  live,  and  swallow  pills  by  the  peck,  and  mixtures  by 
the  gallon.  Heaven  only  knows  how  they  do  it  !  And, 
now,  good-night  to  you,  I'll  drop  in  to-morrow,  and  cast 
a  professional  eye  upon  the  pretty  Magdalen  and  prescribe 
for  that  tiresome  headache." 

Dr.  Philip  departed,  and  George  ascended  at  once  to 
his  own  apartments.  The  gas  burned  low  in  the  parlor  ; 
the  inner  room  was  in  darkness.  In  the  dark  his  wife  lay 
on  a  sofa,  her  face  buried  in  the  cushions,  her  long,  light 
hair  unloosed,  falling  about  her  like  a  veil. 

George  went  softly  in,  and  bent  above  her.  How  still 
she  lay  !     He  could  not  even  hear  her  breathe. 

"  Magdalen  1  "  he  said,  gently,  with  some  vague  dread 
at  his  heart,  "  are  you  asleep  ?" 

There  was  no  reply.  He  lingered  for  a  moment,  caress- 
ing those  lovely  blonde  tresses,  but  she  never  stirred  or 
spoke. 

"  Asleep  !  "  he  whispered  to  himself.  "  Poor  child  !  I 
will  not  disturb  her." 

He  returned  to  the  outer  room,  turned  up  the  gas,  seated 
himself  in  an  armchair,  took  up  a  book,  and  waited.  It 
was  a  novel,  and  an  interesting  one,  and  he  read  and  read 
on  while  the  hours  struck  one  after  another  by  the  city 
clocks  ;  and  midnight  had  chimed,  and  still  his  bride  in 
the  next  room  never  once  moved. 

As  twelve  struck,  he  laid  down  his  book  and  went  in 


128  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

again.     She  remained  as  he  had  left  her— as  still  as  thougft 
she  were  dead, 

''  Magdalen  !  "  he  said,  that  nameless  feeling  of  dread 
returning.     "  Magdalen,  my  dearest,  awake  \" 

She  was  usually  the  lightest  of  sleepers.  A  whispered 
word,  at  any  time,  would  sufBce  to  arouse  her.  But  now 
she  did  not  stir. 

*' Magdalen  I"  George  repeated,  kneeling  beside  her 
and  kissing  her.     "  Magdalen,  awake  !  " 

To  his  "unspeakable  relief  she  stirred  restlessly,  and 
pushed  away,  with  a  pettish  motion,  his  caressing 
hands. 

"  What  is  it  ?  Please  let  me  alone  !  Why  do  you  dis- 
turb me  ?  " 

"  My  darling  !  do  you  know  that  it  is  after  twelve  ?" 
"  Well,"  impatiently,  "  what  of  it  ?    Do,  pray,  let  me 
alone!" 

"  But  it  is  so  uncomfortable  here,  and  you  will  catch 
cold." 

"No — I  am  well  enough." 
*'  And  vour  headache,  dearest  ?" 

"  My  lieadache  is  no  better.  For  pity's  sake,  don't  tor- 
ment me  now  !  Go  to  bed,  if  you  are  sleepy,  and  let  me 
be  ! " 

Her  voice  was  sharp  with  inward  pain.  She  pushed  his 
hands  away  again,  and  turned  more  resolutely  from  him. 
Not  once  liad  she  lifted  her  face  and  looked  at  him.  She 
lay  there  as  miserable  and  suffering  a  woman  as  all  the 
city  held. 

He  arose  at  once,  quite  white — hurt  beyond  expression. 
Vrhat  was  tlie  matter — what  had  he  done  ?  how  had  he 
ojiended  her?  what  did  it  mean?  Without  a  word,  he 
passed  to  tlie  outer  room,  reseated  himself  in  his  chair  and 
left  her  to  sleep. 

To  sleep  !  Would  she  ever  sleep  again  ?  " 
She  lay  with  both  hands  pressed  hard  on  her  throbbing 
temples.  It  was  no  falsehood  to  say  her  head  ached — it 
thrubbed  wildly  under  her  palms.  She  lay  there  suffering 
mutely,  as  women  do  suffer — such  anguish  as  a  pitiful 
God  alone  ever  knows. 

The  hours  of  that  dreadful  night  wore  on.  Ere  two  had 
chimed,  George  was  asleep  in  his  chair — unromantically 
asleep — his  head  all  awry  against  the  back  of  the  chair. 


"  CURSE  OF  AN  ACCOMPLISHED  PRAYER."  129 

So  soundly  asleep  that  there  was  no  danger  of  his  waking 
until  broad  day. 

"He  can  sleep!"  Magdalen  thought,  bitterly,  "Is 
there  anything,  or  anybody  on  the  earth,  for  whom  he 
would  lose  a  night's  rest  'i  " 

She  arose,  stilf  and  cold  ;  she  could  neither  sleep  no: 
lie  quietly  there.  She  took  a  shawl,  wnip])ed  it  arouiu 
her  and  begun  pacing  up  and  down  tlic  room. 

What  shoukl  she  do  ?  what  should  she  do  ?  She  had 
found  Maurice  Langley — wiis  she  to  keep  or  to  break  her 
vow  ?  He  had  deceived  Willie — he  had  deceived  Laura — 
was  she  to  spare  him  because,  with  a  more  deadly  decep- 
tion, he  had  deceived  her,  too  ?  Was  she  to  spare  him 
because  he  had  betrayed  her  into  loving  him — become  her 
husband  and  ruined  her  whole  life  ?  Never  !  never  I  ten- 
fold bitterer  let  his  punisliment  be  for  that  ! 

AVhat  should  she  do  ?  She  walked  to  the  window  and 
laid  her  hot  forehead  against  the  frosty  panes.  At  last, 
even  Broadway  was  still.  Over  it  a  black,  starless  sky 
hung  ;  up  and  down  the  wild  January  blasts  whirled  ;  at 
rare  intervals  a  ste])  echoed  loudly  on  the  frozen  pavement, 
nnd  a  dark  figure  flitted  by.  Oh,  the  lonely,  lonely,  lonely 
city  in  the  dead,  black  night  !  Oh,  for  the  lost  and  miser- 
able wfimeu,  who  flit,  like  bad  ghosts,  over  its  pitiless 
stones  ! 

The  wretched  watcher,  looking  out  with  such  weary, 
haggard  eyes,  remembered  that  dreadful  Jiight  of  Lauras 
flight  from  Maurice  Langley — that  night  when  she  had 
wandered,  homeless  and  houseless,  through  these  terrible 
streets  until  morning,  nuid  with  the  mad  despair  only  lost 
womanhood  can  know. 

Laura  had   found  a  home  where  such  as  she  only  can 
find  it,  and   here  her  destroyer  slept,  a  ha])py  and  pros- ' 
perous   man.     Should    she   spare   him  now  ?     ller    heart 
seemed  to  grow  harder  than  iron  as  she  stood  there. 

"  1  will  read  Laura's  letter,"  she  said  ;  "her  voice  shall 
speak  to  me  from  the  dead  once  more." 

She  went  to  her  trunk,  opened  it  and  took  therefrom  a 
dainty  writing  ca^ie,  inlaid  with  pearl  and  silver  —  Doctor 
Phi'lip  Barstone's  wedding  gift.  A  tiny  key,  fastened  to 
her  watch  guard,  opened  it,  and,  from  a  privjite  drawer, 
she  took  forth  her  dead  si^jfer's  letter. 

There  was  sutiicient  \W\\\j  iu  the  room  for  her  to  read 


130  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

where  she  knelt.  She  began  and  read  it  slowly  until  she 
reached  this  paragragh  : 

"  I  was  Bot  his  wife — tluit  ceremony  at  the  hotel  was 
the  most  contemptible  of  shams.  He  had  a  bona-fide  wife 
living  before  he  ever  saw  me,  and  living  still — deserted. 
I  had  been  fooled  from  first  to  last." 

The  fatal  letter  dropped  from  Magdalen's  hand. 

'•  I  never  thought  of  that,"  she  said,  in  an  awful  whis- 
■per.  "  I  never  thought  of  that!  The  wife,  living  four 
yeai-s  ago — deserted — mav  be  living  still ;  and  then — what 
am  I  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

UNPLEASANT  FOR  A  BRIDEGROOM. 

Mr.  George  Barstone  awoke  at  eight  o'clock  thar. 
morning,  to  find  the  wintry  rain  lashing  the  windows  and 
the  January  wind  shrieking  wildly  up  and  down  the  dreary 
streets. 

He  sat  up  and  stared  around  liim,  feeling  stifE  and 
cramped,  and  not  a  little  bewildered. 

**  Have  I  been  sleeping  in  this  nn-Christian  fashion  all 
niglit  ?  And  there's  Magdalen  ?  Oh,  I  remember,  she 
was  ill." 

He  arose  at  once.  Magdalen  sat  by  the  window  of  the 
inner  room,  wrapped  in  a  large  shawl,  watching  the  cease- 
less rain. 

How  white  and  haggard  she  was  !  How  miserably  ill 
and  worn  she  looked  !  Her  husband  gazed  at  her  in  real 
alarm. 

*'  For  heaven's  sake,  Magdalen  ! "  he  said,  "  don't  tell 
me  you  have  been  sitting  at  that  window  all  night  !  Are 
you  ill  ?  Has  anything  happened  ?  My  darling  !  my 
darling  !     What  is  tlie  matter  ?  " 

His  arms  were  around  her— he  drew  her  head  lovingly 
on  his  breast,  and  kissed  her. 

And  Magdalen,  shivering  through  all  her  being,  strug- 
gled and  freed  herself,  and  drew  away.  The  husband  of 
two  short  weeks  stood  gazing  at  her,  aghast. 

"  Magdalen,"  he  said,  his  ruddy  face  growing  pale  as 


UNPLEASANT  FOR  A  BRIDEGROOM.       131 

her  own,  "  what  is  it  ?  Have  I  offended  you  ?  Have  I, 
in  my  blunderin^r  way,  done  anything  wrong  ?  1  am  but 
a  rough  fellow  at  best,  and  may  have  hurt  your  feelings 
in  some  way  unknown.  God  knows  I  would  rather  die 
than  cause  you  one  pang  !  Oli,  my  wife  !  my  darling  ! 
speak  and  tell  me,  that  1  may  atone  !  This  silence— this 
coldness — is  torture  !  " 

He  knelt  before  her,  his  arms  about  her,  his  eyes  full 
of  mute  appeal. 

Was  this  acting  ?  He  was  quite  white  and  the  uplifted 
eves  gazed  at  her  in  speechless  pain.  H  it  were  but  act- 
ing, then  he  was  past  master  of  the  art.  But  this  bride 
of"  a  fortnight  knew  better.  Lost  wretch,  false  traitor 
that  he  had  "been  and  was,  he  still  loved  her  with  a  strong 
and  intense  love.  She  felt  a  sort  of  savage  satisfaction  in 
the  thought— in  the  knowledge — that,  through  that  love, 
at  least,  she  could  stab  him  to  the  heart  I  in  these  first 
bitter  hours  of  discovery  she  could  feel  neither  pity  nor 
relenting. 

She  silt  stonily  silent  now,  not  once  even  looking  at  him. 

"  Magdalen  !  "  he  pleaded  ;  "  Magdalen  !  Magdalen  ! 
Will  you  not  even  look  at  me,  not  even  speak  one  poor 
word?  Oh,  my  darling  I  Hove  you!  I  love  you!  Have 
a  little  mercy  and  tell  me  what  I  have  done  ?  " 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  now  full  in  the  face. 
How  strangely  solemn  and  haggard  the  great,  luminous 
eves  were  ! 
"  He  remembered  and  understood  that  thrilling  gaze,  and 
never  without  some  of  the  keen  pain  he  felt  then  all  his 
life  long. 

"  Tell  you  what  you  have  done  ?  "  she  slowly  repeated, 
"  tell  you"  what  you  have  done  ?  Stop  and  think  one  mo- 
ment •,  look  liackward,  if  you  dare,  and  answer  your  ques- 
tion yourself  I  " 

The  red  blood  surged  slowly  over  his  face  as  he  listened. 
His  eyes  fell.     He  got  up  suddenly  and  walked  away. 

"  I  am  answered,"  Magdalen  said,  under  her  breath, 
and  turned  her  white  face  to  the  window  once  niore. 

He  heard  the  whispered  words  and  paused  on  the  thresh- 
hold  of  the  outer  room. 

'<!  do  not  understand  you,'' he  said,  in  a  constrained 

voice.     "  Who  has  been  talking  to  you  of  me  ?  " 

**No  one." 


132  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

The  words  dropped  from  her  lips  like  ice. 

"  What,  then,  do  you  mean  ?  Why  do  yon  allnde  to 
the  past  ?     Who  has  wrought  this  sudden  change  ?" 

"No  one.'' 

He  came  back  as  suddenly  as  he  had  left  her,  face  and 
eyes  full  of  .yearning  love — of  passionate  appeal. 

"  Magdalen,"  he  cried,  "you  are  cruel — you  are  merci- 
less. As  heaven  hears  me,  this  is  a  fathomless  mystery. 
I  have  committed  no  crime  in  the  past — none  at  least  that 
can  possibly  concern  you.     Some  enemy  has  been  slander- 

"  Ah,  hush  !  "  the  girl  said,  with  inexpressible  weariness, 
*'  let  me  alone,  George  Barstone.  There  is  the  breakfast 
bell  !  "  She  arose  slowly.  "Forget  what  I  have  said,  if 
you  like,  and  let  us  go  down.  Don't  stare  at  me  in  that 
wild  way.  Set  me  down  as  like  all  the  rest  of  my  sex — 
changeable,  incomprehensible,  what  you  like — only  don't 
drive  me  mad  with  questions." 

There  was  a  suppressed  intensity  in  her  tone,  a  sup- 
pressed passion  in  her  white  face  and  dilated  eyes,  that 
might  well  alarm  any  one  who  loved  her.  It  strangely 
startled  this  man  who  idolized  her.  Without  a  word  he 
drew  her  hand  within  his  arm  and  led  her  down  to  break- 
fast. 

The  day  had  been  appointed  for  an  excursion  to  Ho- 
boken  ;  but  the  weather,  if  nothing  else,  precluded  all 
possibility  of  that.  Breakfast  was  little  better  than  a  farce 
with  either,  and  they  returned  up-stairs  the  moment  the 
meal  was  ended.  Perhaps,  among  all  the  wretched  days 
that  were  to  come,  Magdalen  counted  none  so  wretched 
and  hopeless  as  this.  In  the  after  time  she  had  at  least 
a  confidant  and  a  sharer  in  tlie  great  trouble  of  her  life  ; 
that  is,  if  any  one  can  share  the  trouble  of  a  wife  estranged 
from  her  husband. 

To-day  she  had  not  even  that  poor  comfort.  All  the 
weary  hours,  while  the  ceaseless  rain  beat  the  glass,  while 
the  wintry  gusts  whirled  the  sleet  before  it,  she  sat  mo- 
tionless, gazing  at  the  never-ending  stream  of  human  life 
below.  She  held  a  book  in  her  hand,  but  it  was  the  poor- 
est of  excuses — she  did  not  even  pretend  to  read.  And  all 
the  while  the  dark,  sleety  hours  wore  on,  the  same  thought 
kept  beating  in  her  hot  head  : 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?    What  shall  I  do  ?  '' 


UNPLEASANT  FOR  A  BRIDEGHOOM.        133 

George  essayed  conversation,  but  his  efforts  were  miser- 
able failures  ;  it  takes  two  to  talk,  as  he  found.  Should 
they  go  to  Wasliington  on  the  morrow  ?  No,  she  had  no 
wish  to  go. 

Did  she  prefer  remaining  in  New  York  or  returning  to 
Golden  Willows  ?  She  had  no  choice — she  did  not  care — 
he  would  do  as  he  liked — all  ])laces  were  the  same  to  her. 
She  scarcely  looked  at  him  once  ;  no  need  to  look  to  see 
the  piteous  expression  his  face  wore. 

Doctor  Philip  called  in  the  course  of  the  dismal  after- 
noon, to  find  that  obstinate  headache  of  Mrs.  IJarstone's 
no  better.  It  was  true  enough,  her  head  did  ache — when 
she  had  time  to  remember  she  had  a  head — with  a  dull 
throbbing  pain. 

The  doctor  eyed  her  with  more  than  professional  gravity 
and  insisted  upon  feeling  her  pulse. 

"  High — feverishly  high,"  he  said.  "  My  dear  Mrs. 
Barstone — my  dear  Magdalen,  if  you  will  permit  the 
cousinly  liberty — you  really  must  take  care  of  yourself,  or" 
— An  awful  hiatus  aiul  a  face  of  owl-like  solemnity. 

Magdalen  snatched  her  hand  away  in  affright. 

''I  am  not  going  to  be  ill,"  she  said,  angrily.  "I 
never  was  ill  in  my  life.  I  tell  you  there  is  nothing  the 
matter  with  me." 

*'  Excuse  me.  Do  you  call  that  intolerable  headache, 
this  rapid  pulse,  nothing,  my  dear  young  lady  ?  No  one 
could  regret  any  illness  of  yours  more  than  I  should — 
there  will  be  none,  I  sincerely  trust  ;  but  do  pray  be  care- 
ful of  yourself.  Keep  very  quiet — avoid  excitement— 
don't  think." 

He  spoke  the  two  last  words  with  a  grave  significance 
that  made  both  husband  and  wife  look  at  him.  But  the 
medical  countenance  was  professionally  unreadable. 

Magdalen  flushed  angry  red.     Did  he  suspect  her  al- 
ready ?     For  George,  his   ruddy  face  was  strangely    pale 
and  anxious.     When  Philip  turned  to  go  he  followed  him 
.  from  the  room. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Phil,"  he  exclaimed,  "  what  is  it  ? 
What  is  tlie  matter  with  my  wife  ?  I  give  you  my  honor 
she  is  no  more  like  herself  than  day  is  like  night." 

"I  can  see  that,"  the  doctor  answered.  "Mrs.  Bar- 
stone  is  in  an  abnormal  state.  When  did  this  change  oc- 
cur, and  what  has  caused  it  ?  " 


134  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

**  Canscil  it  ?  "  repeated  George,  with  a  groan.  *'  I  wish 
to  the  L(.i'l  I  knew  !  She  returned  with  me  from  Mrs. 
Moreland  s  party  as  happy  and  well  as  ever  I  saw  her,  and 
next  day,  by  Jove  !  when  we  met,  jnst  before  dinner,  she 
would  hardly  speak  to  me.  And  it's  been  so  ever  since. 
She  hasn't  eaten  or  slept  and  her  talk  this  morning  was  in- 
comprehensible." 

"Ah— what  was  it?" 

"  I  hardly  know  how  to  tell  you — some  crime  I  had 
committed  in  the  past  she  darkly  hinted  at.  Now,  Phil, 
I  have  gone  awry  in  the  past,  as  nobody  knows  better  than 
you  ;  and  I  would  give  a  year  of  my  life  to  undo  what  I 
have  done.  But  it's  all  over  and  gone,  and  can  in  no  way 
concern  her.  And  then,  between  my  falling  asleep  and 
awaking,  who  was  to  tell  her  ?  She  was  alone  all  the 
time  ;  and  if  she  had  not  been,  who  could  tell  her  ?  Not 
a  soul  knows  in  the  city  but  yourself." 

Philip  Barstone  listened  with  a  darkly  impassive  face, 
but  the  strangest  light  of  intelligence  gleamed  in  his 
hazel  eyes. 

"  H'm — m — m  !"  was  his  comment,  with  an  oracular 
nod.  "George,  has  your  wife  anything  on  her  mind? 
Dear  old  boy,  don't  be  afraid  of  me.  Tell  me,  if  you  know. 
No  one  should  have  these  sort  of  secrets  from  their  medical 
man.  Is  there  any  subject  upon  which  Magdalen 
broods — anything  in  her  past  life  to  worry  or  distress 
her?'' 

A  light  dawned  upon  George. 

"The  vow!"  he  cried — ''Magdalen's  vow!  Great 
powers  !  she  can't  be  brooding  upon  that !  The  fellow 
was  here  in  New  York.  It  can't  be  that  she  has  found 
him  ! " 

"  What  vow  ?  Don't  be  so  melodramatic.  Who  vows 
vows  in  these  days  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"See  here,  Phil,  I  promised  not  to  tell  ;  but " 

"  But  where  your  wife's  health,  bodily  or  mentally,  is 
concerned,  a  rash  promise  is  better  broken  than  kept,  and 
I  tell  you  seriously,  my  dear  fellow,  I  see  grave  cause  for 
alarm  here.     Tell  me  about  this  vow." 

Very  much  alarmed,  indeed,  George  Barstone  complied. 
He  told  the  whole  story  of  Magdalen's  troubles,  of  the  vow 
of  vengeance  against  Maurice  Langley. 

"  She  would  sacrifice  her  life  in  keeping  it,  if  necessary," 


UNPLEASANT  FOR  A  BRIDEGROOM.       135 

George  said.     "  Her  whole  soul  is  bent  npon  it.     If  she 
ever  meets  that  man,  my  eartlily  happiness  is  at  an  end.** 

Doctor  Barstone  laughed,  with  ever  so  slight  suspicion 
of  a  sneer. 

"  Highly  sensational,  indeed  !  What  does  Mr^.  Bar- 
stone  propose  to  do  ?  Her  sister  runs  away  with  him,  her 
brother  forges  a  note  ;  the  majesty  of  the  law  won't  touch 
this  Mr.  Maurice  Langley  for  cither  of  these  little  pecca- 
dillos. Sad  cases  both  ;  but,  unfortunately,  very  common 
ones.  I'm  afraid  this  bombastical  vow  is  only  so  much 
blank  cartridge.  And  it  is  to  be  hoped  she  won't  turn 
Nemesis  or  Borgian  and  stab  or  poison  him  I" 

''Heaven  knows!"  George  answered,  with  a  groan. 
"  I  can't  tell.  I  only  know  if  this  sort  of  thing  continues 
I  shall  go  mad.     AVliat  do  you  advise,  Phil  ?  " 

"  Have  you  asked  her  what  was  the  nuitter  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  she  replied  nothing,  and  adheres  to  it.  I 
asked  her  if  she  would  go  to  Washington.  She  told  me  she 
preferred  staying  here.     Phil,  what  is  it  you  dread  ?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  later.  I  don't  want  to  be  precipitate. 
Let  her  have  her  way  ;  humor  her  ;  if  she  prefers  silence, 
be  silent ;  take  her  out,  if  she  will  go  ;  keep  her  amused. 
I'll  call  again  to-morrow,  and  see  if  this  little  post-nuptial 
fit  of  sulks  is  dispersed." 

Doctor  Masterson's  assistant  departed  and  George  re- 
turned, very  downcast  and  distressed,  to  the  parlor. 

His  wife  kept  her  seat,  looking,  oh,  so  haggard  and  ill, 
gazing  out  with  darkly  brooding  eyes  that  saw  noth- 
ing. 

The  storm  subsided  toward  evening  and  the  frosty  stars 
came  out.  Mr.  Barstone  invited  his  wife  to  accompany 
him  to  the  theater,  and  Magdalen  consented,  wearily. 
What  did  it  matter  whither  she  went  or  what  became  of 
her  ?  The  world  had  come  to  an  end.  What  was  left  but 
misery  and  despair  now  ? 

It  was  a  very  cheerful  scene — the  bright-gilded,  gas- 
lighted  theater,  with  its  countless  gaily  dressed  ladies,  and 
the  play  was  the  most  cheerful  of  comedies,  at  which  even 
George  laughed.  But  she  sat  beside  him  and  saw  the 
figures  on  the  stage,  as  tiiough  they  had  been  puppets  in  a 
peep  show,  and  the  music  and  the  talking  were  all  blended 
in  one  confused  din. 

When  she  went  forth   on  George's  arm   she  could  no 


136  MAGDALET^'S  VOW. 

more  have  told  yon  what  she  had  seen  and  heard  than  if 
that  pleasant  comedy  had  been  Hindostanee. 

The  light  burned  dim  in  the  outer  room  as  they  reached 
home  and  on  the  table  lay  a  letter — "  Mrs.  George  Bar- 
stone,"  in  a  big,  masculine  hand,  and  postmarked  New 
York. 

"  A  letter  for  you,  my  dear,"  George  said,  handing  it 
to  her  ;  "  from  some  one  in  the  city." 

She  took  it  hastily,  with  a  little  exclamation,  for  the 
writing  was  Willie's.  Without  a  word  of  excuse  or  ex- 
planation, she  passed  hastily  into  tlie  inner  room  and 
closed  tlie  door. 

She  had  been  thinking  of  Willie — ouglit  she  not  send 
and  tell  him  of  the  discovery  she  had  made  ?  She  tore 
open  his  letter  now  and  read  with  eager,  burning  eyes  ; 

''156  East Street. 

"DearM.  :— 

"  You  see,  I  have  found  you — I  caught  a  glimpse  of 
your  face  the  other  night,  as  you  came  out  of  the  Academy 
of  Music.  It  was  only  a  glimpse,  but,  of  course,  I  recog- 
nized you. 

"  I  tried  hard  to  see  who  was  with  you — your  husband, 
of  course — but  there  I  failed.  The  crowd  took  you  and 
left  me  behind. 

"  Now  I  had  a  double  motive  in  trying  to  see  your  hus- 
band— something  more  than  curiosity  about  my  new 
brother-in-law.  I  have  made  a  discovery — I  have  found 
out  Maurice  Langley's  real  name,  and  that  real  name  is — 
you  will  stare  when  you  hear  it — Barstone. 

"  How  I  have  found  this  out,  never  mind.  I  have  it 
from  reliable  authority.  There  is  nothing  in  a  name — 
there  may  be  fifty  Barstones  in  New  York,  but  I  tell  you, 
Mag,  the  coincidence  gave  me  a  chill.  Still  you  need  not 
be  alarmed,  the  coincidence  of  a  name  is  nothing,  as  I 
have  said.  I  must  see  your  husband,  however,  and  at 
once.  To-morrow,  Saturday,  I  will  hang  about  the  hotel 
from  ten  until  four — come  out  with  him  sometime  be- 
tween those  hours.  Take  no  notice  of  me,  but  if  you  see 
me,  make  your  husband  turn  his  face  in  my  direction. 
He  won't  recognize  me,  even  if  he  should  be — but  that  is 
all  nonsense — he  can't  be,  of  course.  Don't  fail — I  will 
be  on  the  watch.  '*  Willie." 


'    THE  FIRST  MOVE.  i  137 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE    FIRST   MOVE. 

Mr.  Barstone  waited,  with  considerable  impatience, 
for  his  wife  to  read  her  letter  and  reiipi^ear.  She  would 
tell  him  who  it  was  from,  of  course.  Gentlemen  in  the 
honeymoon  don't,  us  a  rule,  care  to  see  their  brides  in  re- 
ceipt of  letters  from  unknown  malecorres})ondents.  And 
then,  who  could  there  be  in  New  York  to  address  Mag- 
dalen ?  So  Mr.  Barstone  waited  impatiently,  and  whistled 
and  walked  up  and  down. 

He  was  allowed  to  wait.  Half  an  hour  passed — an  hour 
— still  no  Magdalen — and  no  sound  within  that  inner 
room. 

George  turned  desperate.     lie  tapped  at  the  door. 

*'May  I  come  in,  Magdalen  ?"  he  said. 

There  was  no  reply. 

He  opened  the  door  and  entered.  The  light  burned 
dim  ;  all  was  quiet.  Magdalen  was  comfortably  in  bed 
and  asleep — asleep  to  all  appearances,  at  least — and  the 
mysterious  letter  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

George  was  a  moral  young  man — as  moral  young  men 
go — and  seldom  swore — his  sunny  temper  aiding  his  mor- 
ality ;  but  I  am  afraid  he  did  a  little  mental  swearing  to- 
night. 

It  was  too  bad  of  Magdalen  to  torment  him  like  this. 
He  loved  the  very  ground  she  walked  on,  and  she  trod  him 
under  those  pretty  feet. 

Who  was  that  letter  from  ?  What  man  could  there  be 
in  New  York  who  could  not  come  to  see  her,  but-  must 
write  her  mysterious  epistles  ?  She  had  told  him  she  had 
not  a  single  acquaintance  in  the  city.  Wliy  did  slie  have 
siBcrets  from  her  husb.'ind  ?  Had  she  ceased  to  love  him  ? 
Had  she  never  loved  him  ?  Was  it  only  to  end  the  drud- 
gery of  teaching,  and  become  mistress  of  Golden  Willows, 
that  she  had  married  him,  after  all  ?  " 

I  fear  poor  George  had  but  an  indifferent  night  of 
it,  as  he  tossed  about,  distracted  by  that  fair  young  bride, 


138  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

who  had  hitherto  seemed  to  him  a  very  little  lower  than 
the  ai>gels.  He  fell  asleep  toward  morning,  to  dream 
feverish  dreams,  in  which  his  wife  and  a  mysterious  man 
in  a  oloak,  whose  face  he  never  could  see,  were  perpetually 
mixed  up. . 

The  early  sunshine  flooded  the  room  when  he  awoke  and 
Magdalen,  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  her  toilet, 
stood  before  the  mirror.  She  was  still  very  pale,  and 
there  were  dark  circles  surrounding  her  eyes,  telling  of 
racking  care  and  sleepless  nights,  but  a  resolute  look  of 
fixed  determination  had  taken  the  place  of  the  haggard 
despair  of  yesterday. 

The  kand  of  fate  had  pointed  out  her  course  ;  Willie's 
letter  took  the  matter  out  of  her  hands.  He  should  know 
all  to-day. 

"  Dressed,  Magdalen  ?  "  George  said.  "  And  how  is 
your  headache  this  morning,  my  dearest  ?  " 

"  Much  better — almost  entirely  gone.  A  walk  after 
breakfast,  in  this  sparkling  air,  will  complete  the  cure. 
You  will  accompany  me,  I  suppose,  George  ?  " 

Accompany  her !  George's  face  lighted  up  with  the 
radiance  of  a  rising  sun. 

"  My  darling,  I  am  only  too  delighted  to  hear  you  ask 
me  ;  for  walking,  or  driving,  or  sailing,  I  am  your  most 
submissive  slave.  I  hope  your  letter  of  last  night  contained 
no  unpleasant  news  ?  " 

He  asked  the  artful  question  as  Magdalen  turned  to  quit 
the  chamber. 

"  Unpleasant  news  ? "  she  said,  briefly  and  coldly. 
*'  Oh,  no  !  It  was  from  a  friend  only  recently  arrived  in 
the  city." 

She  deigned  no  further  explanation  and  George  arose 
and  dressed,  with  a  very  dissatisfied  expression  of  face. 

It  was  a  secret,  then,  and  she  did  not  mean  to  tell  him. 
The  green-eyed  monster  took  tlie  bridegroom's  heart  be- 
tween its  finger  and  thumb,  and  gave  it  a  most  horrible 
twinge. 

"  What  am  I  to  think  ?  Why  does  she  make  a  mystery 
of  this  matter  ?  Oh,  Magdalen,  Magdalen  I  how  strangely 
you  are  changed  !  " 

They  went  down  to  breakfast  together.  It  was  half- 
past  nine,  by  Magdalen's  watch,  when  they  returned  up 
stairs — an  hour  too  soon  to  quit  the  house. 


THE  FIRST  MOVE.  139 

"  You  want  your  smoke,  George,  I  know,"  she  said, 
busying  iierself  over  the  trifles  upon  the  table,  "and  I  have 
aletter  to  write  to  New  Hampshire.  If  you  will  return 
for  me  in  an  hour  you  will  find  me  ready." 

The  hint  was  not  to  be  mistaken.  George  took  it  and 
departed  at  once.  lie  did  want  a  smoke  to  comfort  him 
a  little  under  all  this.  lie  sat  in  the  reading-room  and 
perused  the  morning  papers  over  his  consoling  Havana, 
and  Magdalen  dashed  off  a  few  brief  lines  to  nurse 
Rachel. 

She  was  well,  she  had  heard  from  Willie,  she  expected 
to  return  to  Golden  Willows  in  a  fortnight — that  was  all. 
She  folded  and  sealed  the  note  and  then  arose  and  dressed 
for  the  walk.  She  looked  at  herself  in  a  sort  of  weary 
wonder,  as  she  put  on  her  bonnet. 

"  How  pale  aiid  thin  I  have  grown  in  two  brief  days," 
she  thought.  'MVhere  is  all  the  bloom  and  beauty  he  used 
to  praise  now  ?  " 

'•  Half-past  ten,  my  love,"  George  cried,  briskly  open- 
ing the  door.  "■  All  ready  ?  If  the  wind  and  sunshine 
this  morning  don't  bring  back  your  lost  roses,  then  noth- 
ing will." 

They  descended  the  stairs  and  passed  out  of  the  hotel. 
Magdalen  gave  one  sweeping,  hurried  glance  around. 
Many  people  were  passing  and  there,  on  the  curbstone, 
stood  a  young  man,  his  hands  thrust  deep  into  his  coat 
pockets,  his  felt  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes,  a  cigar  between 
his  lips — aimless  and  alone. 

*' My  glove  has  come  unfastened,  George,"  Mrs.  Barstone 
said,  her  clear  tones  quite  audible  where  this  loiterer  stood. 
"  Fasten  it  please." 

George  obeyed.  His  face,  as  he  secured  the  button, 
turned  directly  toward  the  solitary  young  man  on  the  crub- 
stone. 

"  There,  my  dear,"  he  said,  and  drawing  the  little  hand 
within  his  arm,  he  led  her  away. 

It  was  a  lovely  mid-winter  morning — the  sunshine  spark- 
ling, the  wind  frosty  but  not  piercing,  the  stores  at  their 
gayest,  aiul  Broadway  filled  with  people. 

In  spite  of  herself,  Magdalen's  spirits  rose.  What  if 
after  all,  there  had  been  some  great  mistake  ?  What  if 
Willie  should  say,  ''  Your  husband  is  not  Maurice  Laug- 
ley,"  in  spite  of  everything  'i 


140  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

Yon  see  we  will  hope  against  hope,  all  of  us,  where  oor 
nearest  and  dearest  are  concerned. 

The  lost   color   flushed  back  into  her  cheeks,  the  lost 

brilliance    in   her   eyes.     She   laughed    once    more,     she 

chatted  in  the  exuberance  of  her  new  and  desperate  hope. 

"  Thank   God  ! "    George   said,  in   his   faithful   heart. 

"  Oh,  thank  God  !     I  knew  it  could  not  last  ! " 

The  newly  wedded  pair  did  not  return  to  the  hotel. 
Down  Broadway  they  encountered  Mrs.  Moreland,  in  her 
elegant  barouche,  and  that  lady  drew  up  and  insisted  upon 
their  getting  in. 

"  You  shall  dine  and  spend  the  evening  with  me,"  Mrs. 
Moreland  said.  "  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  St.  Nicholas. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Barstone,  not  a  word  of  excuse.  Oh, 
your  dress  ?  Nonsense  !  We  will  be  the  merest  family 
party ;  your  dress  is  all  that  could  be  desired.  Home, 
James." 

Mrs.  Moreland's  family  party,  however,  turned  out  to 
be  rather  a  large  gathering  and  Magdalen  spent  a  very 
gay  and  pleasant  evening. 

Doctor  Philip  was  present — late,  as  usual,  and  pleading 
his  professional  engagements  as  an  excuse. 

"  People  will  have  colic  and  cramps  and  sudden  fits  of 
apoplexy  at  the  most  unreasonable  and  unseasonable 
hours,"  he  said,  plaintively.  "  We  physicians  are  martyrs 
— only  they  won't  canonize  us.  How  are  you,  George, 
and  now's  the  pretty  Magdalen  ?  That  nasty  headache  all 
gone  ?     Ah,  I  see  it  has." 

He  sauntered  over  to  where  she  sat,  looking  very  bright 
and  pretty,  talking  animatedly  with  her  artist  admirer, 
Mr.  Hollis. 

She  glanced  up  at  her  husband's  cousin  with  her  anima- 
ted glance  and  smile. 

"No  need  to  ask  how  you  are,  Mrs.  Barstone,"  the 
doctor  said.  ''Your  headache  of  yesterday  is  quite  gone 
I  see.  I  knew  it  by  George's  radiant  face  the  moment  I 
came  in." 

He  lingered  by  her  side  until  the  hour  of  departure. 
There  was  a  singular  fascination  for  him  in  this  fair-haired 
bride  of  his  cousin's— this  gentle-looking  girl,  who  could 
be  so  darkly  moody  at  times,  and  who  had  avowed  her 
life  to  a  wild  and  desperate  purpose  of  revenge. 

*'  She  doesn't  look  much  like  one  of  the  Furies/'  Doctor 


THE  FIRST  MOVE.  141 

Barstone  thought,  as  lie  watched  her  glowing  face  with 
half-closed,  piercing  eyes;  ''but  there  is  an  old  adage 
about  still  water,  and  your  quiet  little  women  are  the  very 
deuce  when  aroused.  'J'hat  pretty  smiling  mouth  is  a  very 
determined  mouth,  and  those  bright  blue  eyes  can  flash 
steely  fire  upon  occasions,  I  dare  swear.  A  man  might 
have  a  safer  enemy  than  you,  my  pretty  Mrs.  Barstone." 

Magdalen  was  in  ver3'-high  spirits  when,  some  time  after 
midnight,  she  drove  home  by  her  husband's  side.  The 
sudden  and  unreasonable  rebound  from  despair  to  hope 
sent  an  hysterical  glow  of  excitement  to  her  face — a  fever- 
ish ring  in  her  laugh  and  voice. 

How  beautiful  the  night  was  !  IIow  brilliant  the  moon  ! 
How  countless  the  stars  !  IIow  picturesque  Broadway 
looked  under  the  moonlight  and  gaslight !  How  pleasant 
the  evening  had  been  !  How  poor  Faiiuy  would  enjoy  her- 
self here  !  How  much  his  cousin  I'hil  improved  upon  ac- 
quaintance I  He  had  been  quite  entertaining  to-night; 
he  had  made  her  laugh  over  droll  stories,  so  drolly  told  ; 
he  spoke  with  such  deep  alTection  of  Aunt  Lydia  !  Oh, 
she  liked  him  ever  so  much  better  than  at  first ! 

So  the  girl  ran  on — feverishly  talkative  and  excited  by 
the  sudden  reaction  she  had  undergone.  She  looked  half 
fearfully,  half  eagerly,  as  they  entered  their  room,  for  a 
note  from  Willie;  but  none  awaited  her.  She  was  to  have 
that  night  to  hope  and  to  sleep  once  more. 

"I  will  hear  from  him  to-day,"  was  her  first  waking 
thought.  "  Oh,  heaven  grant  I  may  hear  the  news  I 
hope  for  !  " 

She  went  down  to  breakfast  with  George — happy  George 
once  more. 

When  they  returned  up-stairs  the  expected  letter  lay 
conspicuous  upon  the  table.  Magdalen  pounced  upon  it 
in  an  instant,  but  not  before  George  had  seen  the  super- 
scription, in  the  same  big,  masculine  fist  as  before. 

"  Hullo  I"  he  said,  "■  another  letter  from  your  unknown 
friend  in  the  city.  Why  the  deuce  doesn't  he  come  to  see 
you,  instead  of  writing  you  mysterious  letters,  Magdalen  ?" 

Perhaps  Magdalen  did  not  hear — she  made  no  reply,  she 
carried  the  letter,  as  before,  into  the  inner  chamber,  and 
closed  the  door  after  her. 

"Hang  it!  "thought  George,  sitting  sulkily  down  by 
the  window.      "  Confound  it !      It's  a  little  too  bad,  by 


142  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

George  !  What  business  has  Magdalen  to  receive  letters 
from  other  men  and  refnse  to  let  me  see  them  ^  I'm  not 
a  jealous-minded  fellow  in  the  main,  but  if  tliis  sort  of 
thing  goes  on  much  longer,  I'll  know  the  reason  why,  by 
Jove  ! " 

In  the  bedroom  Magdalen,  with  the  sealed  letter  in 
her  hand,  stood  for  a  moment  gazing  at  it  with  a  sick  feel- 
ing of  dread.  It  might  be  her  reprieve  or  her  death  war- 
rant— who  could  tell  ? 

Once,  twice,  she  tried  to  open  it,  and  stopped  ;  then, 
with  a  swift  impulse  of  desperation,  she  tore  off  the  en- 
velope and  read  : 

*'  For  God's  sake,  don't  say  that  the  man  I  saw  with  you 
this  morning  is  the  man  yon  have  married  !  That  man  is 
Maurice  Langley  !  I  feel  half  mad  with  rage  and  fear ! 
The  villain  !  How  dare  he  do  it  ?  Meet  me  to-day — I 
must  see  you  !  From  one  o'clock  until  five  I  will  be  in 
front  of  the  Academy  of  Music.  Meet  me  without  fail. 
Come  veiled  and  alone.  "  Willie." 

The  letter  dropped  from  her  fingers — the  fatal  letter 
that  destroyed  her  last  hope.  She  slid  on  her  knees  ;  her 
face  fell  upon  her  clasped  hands. 

"  Let  me  die  !"  she  cried  ;  "let  me  die  before  I  ever 
see  him  again  !     Oh,  God,  be  merciful  and  let  me  die  !  " 

It  was  a  wicked  and  desperate  prayer — wicked  and 
desperate  as  the  purpose  of  her  life.  She  knelt  there  in  a 
dreadful,  blind  despair,  and  neither  on  earth  nor  in  heaven 
could  this  most  wretched  wife  look  for  hope  or  help. 

How  long  she  lay  there  she  never  knew — she  was  past 
taking  note  of  time.     A  tap  at  the  door  aroused  her. 

''Magdalen,"  George's  impatient  voice  said,  "are  you 
asleep  ?  If  so,  be  good  enough  to  say  so,  or  I  will  go  in 
and  awaken  you." 

Magdalen  arose.  Despair  might  come,  but  death  would 
not,  at  her  bidding.  She  opened  the  door  and  admitted 
her  husband. 

*'  Have   you   forgotten    our  proposed  little   excursion 

to ?     My  dear,  what  new  trouble  has  happened  ?    You 

have  had  bad  news  ?  " 

'*  I  have  changed  my  mind  about  the  excursion," 
Magdalen  answered,  turning  away.     **  I — I  do  not  feel 


THE  FIRST  MOVE.  143 

well  enongh  to  go.  But  that  need  not  detain  you.  You 
have  promised  Mrs.  Morelaiid,  and  they  will  excuse  me." 

"  Very  likely  ,  but  I  shall  not  ask  them.  As  if  I  could 
leave  you  alone,  and  ill  I  What  is  it,  my  dear?  That 
wretched  headache  again,  or  did  your  letter  contain  bad 
news  ?     It  was  not  from  your  nurse,  I  think." 

"  No  ;  it  was  not  from  my  nurse." 

"  I  was  not  aware  you  had  any  other  correspondents, 
my  dear.     From  some  one  in  the  city,  was  it  not  ?  " 

"  It  was." 

Her  hand  clenched  over  it  as  she  spoke. 

"  From  some  man  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Magdalen,  you  will  show  me  that  letter,  will  yon  not  ? 
It  is  not  jiossible  you  can  have  any  secrets  from  me  ?" 

"  It  is  quite  possible,  Mr.  Barstone  !  I  dare  say,  if  the 
truth  were  known,  you  have  more  than  one  from  me." 

"  Magdalen  !  " 

She  laughed  recklessly.  With  that  miserable  ceaseless 
anguish  at  her  heart,  she  scarcely  knew,  scarcely  cared, 
what  she  said  or  did. 

"  That  absurd  old-fashioned  custom  of  husl)ands  and 
wives  telling  eacli  other  everything  is  obsolete,  like  other 
old-fashioned  customs,  in  this  enlightened  nineteenth 
century.  You  keep  your  own  counsel,  George,  and  I,  for 
the  future,  will  keep  mine.  You  had  better  go  with  the 
Morelauds  to-day,  and  keep  your  word.  You  are  kind  to 
propose  staying  with  me,  but  I  assure  you  I  should  prefer 
being  alone." 

George  was  very  pale — very,  very  grave. 

"  Magdalen,  I  beg  of  you,  show  me  that  note  ?" 

''  I  will  not  show  you  that  note,  George  ! " 

There  was  a  pause. 

**  It  is  a  secret,  then  ?"  he  asked,  huskily. 

"  It  is  a  secret." 

*'  Tell  me,  at  least,  who  is  this  man  who  writes  to  you  ? 
Tell  me  his  name  ?  " 

"  Not  even  his  name.  It  is  quite  useless  your  asking 
me  questions  on  this  subject — I  will  not  tell  you  ! " 

She  tore  the  note  into  fragments,  as  she  spoke,  and  let 
them  flutter  out  of  the  window.  She  felt  as  though  she 
hated  the  man  at  her  side,  wlio  could  look  so  innocent  and 
be  so  guilty. 

"  Magdalen !  Magdalen  !  what  has  come  between  us  ?  ** 


144  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

he  cried  out.  *'  Do  you  know  that  you  are  driving  me 
wild  ?     Why,  why  did  you  ever  marry  me  ?  " 

"  Because  I  was  blind  and  mad.  Oh,  heaven  above — so 
blind,  so  mad  !  " 

She  wrung  her  hands  with  that  wail  of  despair.  George 
Barstone  staggered  like  a  man  wlio  had  received  a  blow. 

*'  Blind  and  mad  ! "  he  whispered,  "  blind  and  mad  ! 
Then  you  never  loved  me,  Magdalen  ! " 

"  Loved  you  ! "  she  cried.  She  rose  up  and  turned  upon 
him  like  a  hunted  animal.  ''  I  loved  you  so  well  that  I 
was  in  heaven,  not  on  earth,  when  yon  asked  me  to  be 
your  wife.  Loved  you  !  Oh,  you  played  your  part  well  ! 
Who  could  help  loving  you  ?  My  God  !  why  did  1  not  die 
on  my  wedding  day  ?  " 

She  broke  out  into  hysterical  sobbing,  her  hands  clasped 
over  her  tortured  face.  It  was  only  for  an  instant.  She 
looked  up  at  him  again,  with  that  desperate,  hunted  glance 
of  some  animal  at  bay  in  her  eyes. 

"  AVill  yon  go  ?"  she  said,  "  will  you  leave  me  ?  What 
is  past  is  past,  and  cannot  be  undone.  Let  me  alone — 
don't  drive  me  frantic  with  questions.  I  have  enough  to 
bear  without  that." 

He  tried  to  speak.     She  would  not  listen  to  a  word. 

"  For  pity's  sake,  let  us  say  no  more  about  it.  Keep 
the  promise  you  made  last  night — go  with  Mrs.  Moreland 
and  her  party.  If  you  have  one  generous  feeling  left  for 
me  in  your  heart,  be  merciful  and  leave  me  alone." 

"  Do  yon  really  wish  it — really  wish  I  should  go  to  this 
excursion  without  you  ?" 

'*  I  really  wish  it.     A  promise  is  a  promise.     Go  ! " 

George  Barstone  turned  on  his  heel  and  approached  the 
door. 

"  I  will  rid  you  of  my  presence,  Magdalen,  since  you 
desire  it  so  much,  but  I  will  not  go  upon  this  excursion 
without  you  !  You  may  have  a  motive  in  thus  wishing  to 
send  me  out  of  the  city  "for  the  day  ;  but  though  I  remain 
— have  no  fear — I  will  not  play  the  spy.  If  you  have  any 
friend  whom  you  wish  to  receive  here  privately,  receive 
that  friend  by  all  means.  I  may  doubt  your  love,  but 
never  your  wifely  loyalty.  The  day  that  sees  me  doubt 
that  sees  us  part  forever  ! " 

He  quitted  the  room  with  the  words.  An  instant  later 
and  he  had  taken  his  hat  and  quitted  the  house  also* 


THE  FIRST  MOVE.  145 

Magdalen  saw  him  pass  under  her  window  and  disappear 

amid  tlie  throng.     For  the  first  time  she  had  thoroughly 

succeeded  in  arousing  and  angering  liim. 

Hours  passed  ;  within  and  without  life  was  at  its  busiest 

ind  brightest ;  many  footsteps  echoed  in  the  passages 
/ithout ;  doors  opened  and  siiut  :  merry  voices  and  gay 
ughter  reached  lier — but  .slie  sat  tlicre  more  utterly  alone, 
ore  utterly  lonely,  than  if  the  great  hotel  had  been  the 
-art  of  some  primeval  forest.  !She  was  learning  the 
itter  truth  of  the  odd  lines  : 

"  And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 
Doth  work  like  madness  on  the  brain." 

So  long  she  lay  there  in  her  trance  of  torpid  suffering, 
that  at  last,  worn  out  by  watching,  she  fell  fast  asleej). 
Do  not  condemned  men  sleep  on  that  last  awful  night, 
that  ])recedes  the  more  awful  to-morrow  ?  Sleep,  the 
merciful,  took  her,  and  held  her  for  hours. 

The  short  winter  day  was  wearing  fast  to  twilight  when 
slio  awoke.  She  started  u])  in  affright,  and  looked  at  her 
watch.  Had  she  overslept  the  appointed  time  ?  No,  it 
was  not  yet  five,  and  the  distance  to  the  place  of  tryst 
short.  She  threw  on  her  mantle  and  bonnet,  fastened  a 
close  mask  of  black  lace  over  her  face  and  departed  ou 
her  errand. 

The  frosty  January  gloaming,  all  gemmed  with  stars, 
lay  like  a  blue  veil  of  mist  over  the  thronged  streets,  as  she 
flitted  rapidly  along. 

Where  had  (ieorge  been  all  day,  she  wondered,  and 
would  he  return  to  the  hotel  before  herself,  and  ask  more 
questions  impossible  to  answer.  As  she  drew  near  the 
stately  building  ou  Fourteenth  Street,  a  young  man, 
slouching  idly  before  it  with  his  hands  thrust  deep  in  his 
jacket  pockets,  started  forward  to  meet  her. 

"Am  I  late,  Willie?"  she  asked,  panting  with  the 
rapidity  of  her  walk.     *'  I  could  not  help  it.     I  fell  asleep." 

*'  Oil,  you  fell  asleep,  did  you  ?  You've  grown  aris- 
tocratic, I  suppose  and  turned  day  into  night  like  the  rest 
of  them.  If  people  will  enjoy  themselves  at  the  opera  and 
theater  and  balls  on  Fifth  avenue  every  night,  I  suppose 
it  is  to  be  expected  they  will  sleep  all  next  day.  Still,  I 
think,  after  the  news  I  sent  you,  Mrs.  Barstouc,  you  might 


146  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

have  strained  a  point  and  kept  awake,  and  come  here 
earlier.  It's  not  quite  so  pleasant,  loafing  abont  the 
streets  on  a  January  afternoon,  in  cracked  boots  and 
threadbare  coat,  as  in  the  luxurious  chambers  of  the  St. 
Nicholas.  I  suppose,  then,  the  gentleman  (with  sneering 
emphasis)  whom  I  saw  with  you  yesterday  is  not  your 
husband,  after  all.  You,  improved  as  yon  are,  no  doubt, 
by  your  entrance  into  tip-top  society,  even  you  would 
hardly  take  the  news  so  coolly  !  " 

"  Your  news  was  no  news  to  me,"  Magdalen  said,  with 
that  quiet  that  comes  of  great  despair,  "  and  the  man  you 
saw  with  me  is  my  husband." 

Willie  Allward  stared  at  his  sister  in  horror. 

"  Good  God,  Magdalen !  then  you  have  married 
Maurice  Langley  ! " 

"  I  have  married  Maurice  Langley  !  Don't  speak  so 
loudly,  Willie — don't  look  so  wild — people  are  staring  ! " 

But  the  brother  still  gazed  at  her,  as  though  he  could 
neither  believe  his  ears  or  eyes. 

"My  heaven!"  he  said,  "she  has  married  Maurice 
Langley,  and  she  takes  it  likes  this  !  Her  sister's  murderer, 
her  father's  murderer,  her  brother's  tempter  and  destroyer 
— she  has  married  him  and  she  takes  it  like  this  !  " 

"  Like  this  !  "  Magdalen  repeated,  with  a  wild  laugh. 
"  How  would  you  have  me  take  it,  Willie  ?  Did  you  want 
me  to  come  to  you,  with  hair  disheveled  and  eyes  in  fine 
frenzy  rolling,  crying  forth  my  wrongs  on  the  housetops  ? 
Like  this  !  Why,  Willie  Allward,  I  tell  you  I  love  that 
man — do  you  hear  ? — love  him  with  my  whole  heart  and 
soul,  knowing  him  to  be  all  you  say  !  I  tell  you  we  are 
under  a  cnrse,  all  of  us,  and  God  had  surely  forgotten  me, 
or  I  would  have  fallen  dead  on  my  wedding  day." 

"  Ah  !  you  can  feel  !  I  am  glad  of  that  !  Here,  take 
my  arm  and  come  along  ;  as  you  say,  people  are  staring  at 
us.  Let  us  talk  this  bad  business  over  quietly,  if  we 
can.     How  long  is  it  since  you  first  knew  the  truth  ?  " 

"  Since  the  day  I  was  married.  Rachel  came  to  the 
church  and  recognized  in  George  Barstone  the  man  she 
had  known  four  years  ago  as  Maurice  Langley.  She  sent 
for  me  and  told  me,  but  I  tell  you  I  was  resting  under  a 
curse  that  left  me  blind.     I  would  not  believe  her." 

"  Well,  and  how  have  you  been  convinced  since  ?  '* 

'^Willie,   do  you  remember  a  mark  Maurice  Langley 


THE  FIRST  MOVE.  147 

had  tattooed  upon  his  left  arm — a  circlet  of  leaves,  a 
heart  pierced  by  a  dagger,  and  the  initial  *  B  i"  Rachel 
Utld  me  of  it  long  before  I  thought  of  being  married,  but 
it  iiad  entirely  slipped  my  memory  until  three  days  ago. 
It  flashed  bat;k  upon  me  like  lightning,  and  while  he  slept 
I  looked  at  his  arm,  and  beheld  the  fatal  mark." 

Willie  Allward  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  1  remember  !  I  rememljer  !  Then  the  matter  is  be- 
yond a  doubt.  Do  you  know  tliat,  though  I  recognized 
Langley  at  first  sight,  yet,  since,  I  liave  had  doubts — 
grave  doubts  of  his  identity  with  the  man  accompanying 
yon.  Langley,  when  1  knew  him,  over  four  years  back, 
was  much  slighter  and  sallower  tlian  he  is  now,  and  his 
hair  and  mustache  were  jet  black — dyed,  of  course.  Now 
he  wears  no  mustache,  and  you  know  how  the  loss  of  one 
alters  the  expression  of  a  man's  face.  But  tlie  tattooing 
places  the  matter  beyond  a  doubt.  I  recollect  the  mark 
perfectly — it  was  most  peculiar,  and  could  never  be  ef- 
laced.     And  now,  Magdalen,  what  is  to  be  done  ?  " 

"  Hunt  him  down  !  "  Magdalen  answered  between  her 
set  teeth.  *'The  blow  that  strikes  him  will  kill  me  ;  but 
come  misery  or  death,  I  will  keep  my  vow  !  Laura  shall 
be  avenged  ! " 

"  Then  I  may  look  to  you  for  help  without  fail  ?  I  be- 
gan to  fear  I  would  have  you  against  me,  too,  now  that 
you  are  his  wife." 

"  Because  I  am  his  wife,  I  will  aid  you  to  tlie  last. 
How  dare  he  do  it  !  How  dare  he  do  it  !  I  told  him  ray 
story — I  told  of  the  purpose  of  my  life — and  he  dared  to 
marry  me  !  Hunt  him  down,  Willie,  if  you  can,  the 
false,  false,  false  traitor  ! " 

"  Hush-h-h  !  Not  quite  so  loud  on  the  street.  If  I 
can  ?  Oh,  I  can  have  no  fear  of  that  !  I  have  Mr. 
Maurice  Langley  as  completely  in  my  power  as  ever  one 
man  had  another  !  The  law  won't  touch  him  for  his 
crimes  against  Laura  and  me,  but  it  will  for " 

"Forwhat,  brother  ?" 

"  Never  mind  to-night,  Magdalen  ;  don't  be  in  a  hurry 
to  hear  it.  It's  something  you  won't  like  to  hear — 
something  a  little  worse  than  anything  you've  heard  yet." 

'*  Worse  I  "  the  girl  said,  incredulously. 

"  Yes,  young  lady,  a  great  deal  worse — something  that 
will  send  our  fine  gentleman,  until  his  hair,  is  gray,  up  to 


148  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

Sing  Sing.     No,  I  won't  tell  yon  to-night.     I  haven't  my 
plans  quite  matured  yet,  and  I  have  another  person  also  to 

consult." 

*'  Another  person,  Willie  ?    Who  can  it  be  ?  " 

*'  Some  one  whose  acquaintance  yon  will  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  making  also  before  you  are  mucli  older,  my  good 
sister.  How  have  you  acted  since  you  found  this  out  ? 
In  such  a  way,  I  suppose,  that  the  fellow  must  have  seen 
his  game  was  up  from  the  first  ?  It  would  be  just  like 
you  women." 

"  Yes,  he  has  seen  it,"  Magdalen  said,  wearily.  *'  I  can't 
play  the  hypocrite,  Willie.  I  can't  stab  in  the  dark,  and 
smile  while  I  stab.  He  has  seen,  plainly  enough,  that  I 
have  discovered  his  dreadful  crimes  ;  but  he  plays  the 
part  of  unconscious  innocence  so  well  that  if  there  were 
the  faintest  glimmer  of  hope — the  faintest  possibihty  that 
we  could  be  mistaken — I  would  not,  I  could  not  believe 
him  guilty  ! " 

*'  I  dare  say  not,"  with  a  short,  scornful  laugh.  "  You 
don't  want  to  believe  him  guilty,  do  you  ?  I  only  wonder 
that  you  will  believe  him  guilty  as  it  is  !  You  women  are 
the  most  obstinate  and  besotted  fools  under  heaven  where 
men  are  concerned  !  You  fall  in  love  with  one  of  them, 
and  all  earth,  and  all  the  realms  above,  wouldn't  convince 
you  your  idol  was  other  than  an  angel  in  peg-top  pants. 
You  love  this  hang -dog  villain,  and,  I  suppose,  he  pretends 
to  love  you  ?" 

''It's  no  pretense,"  Magdalen  answered,  in  the  same 
weary  tone,  "  he  does  love  me." 

Willie  laughed  in  unutterable  scorn. 

"  Yes,  he  loved  Laura,  too.  I  wonder  what  would 
have  convinced  her,  in  those  first  days,  that  he  didn't 
love  her  ?  Are  you  to  be  trusted,  Magdalen— or  am  I  to 
work  alone  ?  Will  you,  in  one  of  your  womanish,  im- 
pulsive fits,  throw  yourself  on  his  neck  some  day  and  tell 
him  all,  and  make  a  fool  of  yourself  and  a  mess  of  the 
whole  thing  ?  Or  will  you  aid  me— will  you  keep  on 
friendly  terms  with  him,  and  lull  him  to  security,  while  I 
perfect  my  scheme  of  revenge  ?  Answer,  once  and  for  all, 
are  you  to  be  trusted,  or  are  you  not?  " 

He  spoke  fiercely  and  rapidly,  clutching  her  arm,  his 
eyes  flashing. 

"  You  may  trust  me  ! "  his  sister  answered,  finnly  ;  **  on 


THE  FIRST  MOVE.  149 

the  road  we  are  treading  there  is  no  turning  back.  I  will 
keep  my  vow !  I  will  have  my  revenge  upon  Maurice 
Langley  !  " 

They  wer»  passing  a  corner  as  she  said  this,  un- 
consciously raising  her  voice.  Two  men  stood  talking  at 
an  open  door  and  one  of  them  paused  suddenly  in  what 
he  wjis  saying,  as  those  ringing  words  met  his  ear,  and 
turned  around.  The  light  of  the  street  lamp  at  tiie  cor- 
ner fell  full  upon  the  pale  face  of  ]\[agdaltn  Barstone. 
She  had  flung  back  her  veil  in  her  excitement — he  saw  her 
as  plainly  as  though  it  were  broad  day. 

"  Pretty  girl,  Barstone,"  the  other  gentleman  said, 
laughing.     "  Do  you  know  her?  " 

"Yes,  I  know  her,"  Doctor  Philip  Barstone  replied, 
deliberately,  "  and  I  didn't  expect  to  see  her  here,  and  at 
this  time  of  evening.  I'll  call  around  again  to-morrow, 
Fletcher,  to  see  your  wife,  Good-night !" 

He  ran  down  the  steps  abruptly.  His  light  wagon 
stood  on  the  street  ;  he  sprang  in  and  drove  slowly  along 
the  street,  keeping  the  pair  on  the  sidewalk  well  in  view. 
They  never  once  noticed  the  watcher  on  the  street,  they 
were  too  entirely  absorbed  in  their  vendetta  ;  and  he,  of 
course,  could  not  hear  a  word  they  said. 

"  AVhere's  that  moon-struck  idiot,  George,  I  wonder," 
thought  the  doctor,  "  that  he  lets  his  peerless  treasure  walk 
about  the  streets  of  Xew  York  after  nightfall  with  disrepu- 
table young  men?  When  he  left  me,  an  hour  ago,  for 
home  I  don't  think  he  expected  to  find  little  golden-locks 
taking  nocturnal  rambles.  Of  course,  the  fellow's  the 
returned  convict.  Ah!  they're  going  to  part — I'll  keep 
him  in  view,I  think  ;  it  may  be  useful  to  know  where  he 
lives  : " 

They  parted  where  they  had  met — in  front  of  the  Acad- 
emy. The  listener  in  the  wagon  caught,  as  he  drew  boldly 
close  to  the  curbstone,  the  young  man's  last  remark  : 

"■  Go  to  Washington  for  a  week  if  he  wishes  it — make 
yourself  as  agreeable  as  you  can — as  if  you  suspected 
nothing,  you  understand?  Things  done  in  a  hurry  are 
never  well  done.  I  mean  to  work  slowly  and  surely  in 
tliis  matter.  You  may  semi  me  some  money  to-morrow — 
thirty  or  forty  dollars.  I  pick  up  a  trifle  at  odd  jobs, 
but  in  a  thing  like  this  a  fellow  can't  work  without  stamps. 
Tell  him  it's  for  new  dresses,  ear-rings,  bonnets — anything; 


160  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

he'll  give  it  you  fast  enough— isn't  this  the  honeymoon?** 
he  laughed,  harshly.  "  Good  night,  Mag  !  I  won't  say 
pleasant  dreams,  because  I  think  they're  hardly  likely  to 
be  pleasant.  It  won't  do  for  me  to  be  seen  with  you,  yon 
know.     You  can  find  your  way  back,  I  suppose?'' 

<«  Yes— yes — I  have  lingered    too    long    as    it    is! 
should  have  been  back    before  George,   I'll  send  you   tl 
money  to-morrow,  Willie — I  have  more  than  that  of  ii 
own — I  could  not  ask  him  for  it,  so  make  it  last  as  long  a 
you  can.     Good  night !  " 

She  walked  swiftly  and  lightly  away  and  Willie  Allward 
slouched  more  slowly  in  the  opposite  direction.  He  hailed 
a  car  on  Third  Avenue,  presently,  and  was  taken  a  long 
way  down  town  ;  but  the  doctor,  in  his  gig,  followed 
perseveringly,  and  saw  him  get  out  after  half  an  hour's 
ride.  He  followed  him  to  an  obscure  street  close  by  the 
river,  where  tall  tenement  houses  and  reeking  stables  cast 
weird  shadows  in  the  moonlight.  He  entered  one  of  the 
shabbiest  of  these  shabby  dwellings,  and  disappeared. 

<' Earthed,"  said  Doctor  Philip,  smiling  grimly  all 
by  himself  as  he  trotted  briskly  away.  "I  shall  know 
this  street  and  that  house  again  without  difficulty.  What 
plot  are  those  two  hatching  ?  Has  Magdalen  Allward 
found  Maurice  Langley,  or  does  she  only  think  she  has 
found  him  ?  " 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

IN  WHICH  DOCTOR  PHILIP  DOES  HIS  DUTY. 

Mb.  George  Barstone,   having  lost  his  temper  and 

left  his  bride  in  a  very  uubridegroom-like,  not  to  say  un- 
christian, frame  of  mind,  it  would  naturally  be  supposed  he 
passed  a  very  dismal  and  disagreeable  day. 

Nothing  of  the  sort,  however,  Mr.  Barstone  spent  a 
very  jolly  afternoon  and  enjoyed  himself  exceedingly. 
For  one  thing,  he  was  of  that  sanguine,  elastic  tem- 
perament that  throws  off  trouble  as  leaves  throw  off  dew- 
drops  :  for  anotlier,  the  sunshine  and  frosty  wind  were  ex- 
hilarating as  some  rare  wine  ;  and,  for  a  third,  George 
called  upon  some  very  old  friends,  whom,  in  his  devotion 
to  his  fair  young  wife,  he  had  found  no  time  to  look  up 


IN  WHICH  DOCTOR  PHILIP  DOES  niS  DUTY.  151 

hitherto— pleasant  fellows  all — artists,  newspaper  men- 
dwellers  all  in  the  tents  of  Bohemia,  and  all  more  or  lesa 
delighted  to  see  their  old  companion. 

*'  The  very  man  of  men  1  wanted  most  to  see  !  '*  our 
literary  gentlemen  exclaimed,  wringing  tlie  Millford 
lawyer's  hand.  *'l  never  knew  you  wore  married  and  in 
the  city  until  yesterday,  when  Phil  drop])ed  in  to  tell  us. 
How  well  the  fellow's  looking — getting  stouter,  by  Jove! 
And  they  say  you've  married  a  beauty,  old  boy.  Ah,  I 
recollect,  you  always  liad  an  inflammable  heart  and  an  eye 
for  a  pretty  face,  llollis  raves  about  her — don't  know 
Hollis  r  Artist,  you  know — mad  about  fair  women,  blue 
eyes  and  golden  hair,  and  dead  in  love  witli  your  wife. 
'  Pon  my  word  he  is,  George.  And  you'll  dine  with  me, 
won't  you,  dear  old  boy  ?  And  oh,  by  the  bye,  that  re- 
minds me — Lefarge  is  going  to  get  married — remember 
Lefarge,  don't  you  ? — sculptor — clever  fellow,  and  would 
be  much  cleverer  if  he  wasn't  so  deucedly  handsome. 
He's  been  the  pet  of  the  petticoats  since  he  left  off  long 
robes,  I  believe,  and  his  Grecian  nose  and  long  eyelashes 
have  made  his  fortune  at  last.  He's  picked  up  what 
better  men,  like  myself,  have  been  all  our  lives  hunting 
in  vain — a  hundred  thousand  dollar  heiress.  However, 
Lefarge  is  going  to  give  us  a  last  symposium  to-night — a 
sort  of  farewell  feast,  you  understand — before  he  shakes 
the  dust  of  Bohemia  off  his  highly  respectable  boots  and 
goes  in  for  the  bloated  aristocracy.  And  you  must  come, 
old  fellow  ;  Lefarge  begged  me,  only  this  morning,  to 
hunt  you  up,  and  insist  upon  it.  Phil's  coming,  and  a 
dozen  more — not  a  stupid  man  among  them.  I  dare  say 
you'd  rather  be  with  the  little  beauty  you've  married  ;but, 
then,  poor  Lefarge — on  the  brink  of  that  unknown  world, 
upon  which  you  so  bravely  have  sprung — take  compassion 
upon  him,  and  come." 

"  Perhaps  I  may,  Dick,"  he  said,  "  although  I  promised 
Magdalen  to  take  her  to  the  opera  to-night.  At  the  old 
work  I  see  !  "  he  motioned  with  his  cigar  toward  a  drift  of 
manuscript  strewn  wildly  over  the  floor.  "  How's  litera- 
ture ?  " 

"  Lively — uncommonly  so — never  was  so  busy  in  my 
life.  Come  along  to  Delmonico's  and  dine  with  me  once 
more." 

He  led  George  away  and  the  two  friends  dined  sumptu- 


153  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

otjsly  ;  but,  while  he  listened  and  ate,  the  Millford  lawyer's 
thoughts  wandered  off,  many  times,  to  his  bride.  What 
was  she  doing  ?  How  would  she  meet  him  when  he  came 
back  ?  His  literary  friend  found  him  nnsociably  absent 
and  distrait,  and  released  him  as  they  sauntered  out  smok- 
ing their  after-dinner  cigar. 

"  When  a  man  asks  you  the  same  question  thrice  over, 
and  he  never  hears  you,  it's  high  time  to  let  you  go.  You 
want  to  go  back  to  your  wife,  I  suppose  ?  I  don't  think 
Lefarge  will  be  quite  so  far  gone  as  that  three  weeks  after 
matrimony  !  Ask  her  if  she  won't  please  let  you  off  duty 
to-night — for  once  in  a  way  ;  Lefarge  will  never  forgive 
her  if  she  doesn't.  And  so  good-by,  my  dear  George. 
We  meet  again  at  Philippi  !  " 

His  literary  friend,  a  gentleman  who  writes  his  name 
high  among  the  story-telling  Bedouins  of  his  tribe,  saun- 
tered away  ;  but  George,  though  liberated,  did  not  return 
where  his  heart  and  treasure  were.  Had  he  not  promised 
to  rid  her  of  his  presence  for  the  day,  and  it  was  only  five 
o'clock  as  yet  ?  So  Mr.  Barstone  trotted  along  Broadway, 
and  was  another  unit  in  that  busy  thoroughfare,  and  met 
two  or  three  men  he  knew,  among  others  the  lucky  Le- 
farge himself — a  most  remarkably  handsome  young  man  ! 

"  What  !  George  ?  What  !  Barstone  ?  My  dear  fel- 
low, 1  am  delighted  to  see  you  !  I  have  just  come  from 
the  St.  Nicholas — found  you  were  out,  and  left  my  card 
and  an  invitation  for  to-night.  Have  you  seen  Phil  or 
Tompkins  ?     I  begged  them  to  hunt  you  up." 

"  I  have  just  parted  from  Tompkins  ;  he  told  me  of  your 
great,  good  fortune.  My  dear  Lefarge,  permit  me  tocon- 
gi'atulate  you  ! " 

"  And  you'll  make  one  of  us  to-night  ?  I'll  take  no 
denial.  Oh,  nonsense  !  Phil  tells  me  she's  the  most  sen- 
sible of  her  sex,  and  the  most  indulgent  ;  and  I  know  you 
go  out.  Haven't  you  been  at  the  opera,  and  at  Moreland's  f 
Don't  tell  me  !     Say  you  Avill  come." 

"  Yes,  Fll  come"^  "if  possible.  And  you  are  going  to 
marry  a  three  million  heiress  ! " 

"  Worth  her  weight  in  gold,  in  every  respect.  Do  you 
think  anything  less  would  tempt  me  into  the  maelstrom 
of  matrimony  :  And  you've  gone  in  for  love  and  beauty, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Well,  if  you  like  it  ;  but  give 
me  the  widow  or  the  orphan,  with  half  a  million  or  so— 


m  WHICH  DOCTOR  PHILIP  DOES  HIS  DUTY.  153 

not  tied  selfishly  npon  herself — and  I  won't  ask  overmuch 
love  or  beauty  either.  I'm  on  my  way  to  tlie  Joggins 
mansion  now,  George.     Come  along  and  be  introduced." 

So  George  linked  his  arm  in  that  of  his  very  liandsome 
friend,  who  hailed  a  passing  omnibus,  that  took  them  to 
the  portals  of  that  most  aristocratic  brown-stojie  front  on 
Fifth  Avenue  wherein  Miss  Joggins  resided. 

And  the  two  gentlemen  were  shown  into  a  siimpttions 
reception-room  ;  and  presently  Miss  Joggins  came  down  in 
all  the  plenitude  of  her  charms,  with  silks  trailing,  and 
jewels  flashing,  and  priceless  laces  perfuming  the  air. 

The  happy  Araminta,  who  was  neither  very  young  nor 
yery  handsome,  was  yet  a  good-natured  little  person,  who 
chattered  with  much  volubility,  and  even  played  and  sang 
for  her  visitors. 

The  gray  of  the  winter  day  was  lying  over  the  city 
when  the  two  young  men  parted,  and  the  stars  were 
bright  in  the  steel-blue  sky  when  George  went  swinging 
homeward  to  his  hotel. 

"And  to  think  Lefarge  can  marry  that  young  woman, 
whose  fat  fingers  are  laden  with  gaudy  rubies  and  emeralds 
up  to  the  knuckles,  whose  waist  is  like  a  bolster,  and  who 
giggles  and  sings  flat  !  And  to  think  of  my  beautiful 
darling,  with  her  starry  eyes  and  golden  hair,  and  regal 
bearing  !  I  would  be  the  happiest  fellow  in  wide  America 
if  this  mysterious  cloud  had  not  come  between  us.  Is  she 
waiting  for  me  now,  I  wonder — lonely  and  longing  for  my 
return  ?  '■ 

The  bare  idea  lent  wings  to  his  feet.  Five  minutes 
later  and  he  had  flung  away  his  cigar  aiul  gone  bounding 
buoyantly  up  to  his  room.  He  flung  wide  the  door  and 
strode  in. 

"  Magdalen,  my  dearest,"  he  began,  and  then  he  paused 
abruptly,  for  all  was  dark  and  cold  and  silent.  "  Magda- 
len I ''  he  repeated,  but  there  was  no  answer. 

The  starlight  shone  in  with  a  feeble  glimmer  and  showed 
him  the  apartment  vacant.  He  crossed  over  to  the  inner 
room,  and  that,  too,  was  deserted. 

"  Gone  out  !  "  George  said,  blankly,  "  and  alone  at  this 
hour  !  Can  she  be  angry  with  me  for  staynig  away  so 
long  ?  But  it  was  her  own  desire.  Or  caTi  she  be  with 
the  writer  of  those  letters  ?     What  can  it  mean  ?" 

He  lit  the  gas  and  stood  an  instant,  irresolnte. 


164  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

"  I  can't  go  in  search  of  her  !  "  he  thought.  "  I  haven't 
the  faintest  idea  where  she  can  be.  Stop  !  Mrs.  More- 
land's  !  As  I  didn't  go  there  to-day  she  may  have  called 
and  carried  Magdalen  off — willy  nilly  ?  That's  it  !  I'll 
go  there  at  once  !  " 

He  clapped  on  his  hat,  and  was  rushing  impetuously 
forth,  when  the  door  suddenly  opened  and  his  wife,  in  her 
street  dress,  stood  before  him. 

''Magdalen!" 

George  Barstone  stood  and  looked  at  his  wife.  The 
rapid  walk  had  not  brouglit  any  color  to  her  face  ;  she 
looked  strangely  weary  and  white,  as  she  leaned  heavily 
against  the  door.  Something  in  the  dreary  misery  of  her 
face  turned  him  cold. 

"  You  have  been  out,  my  dear,  and  alone  ?" 

"  I  have  been  out,"  she  answered.     ''  Yes." 

She  passed  him  and  entered  the  bedroom  to  remove  her 
bonnet.     He  slowly  followed  her. 

"  Do  you  feel  quite  well  to-night,  Magdalen  ?" 

*'  Thanks— yes." 

"  You  were  out  alone  ?  " 

There  was  no  reply — she  was  absorbed  by  the  fastening 
of  her  mantle. 

*'  Were  you  alone,  Magdalen  ?"  George  reiterated. 

"  Who  was  I  likely  to  be  witli  ?  "  Magdalen  responded, 
coldly.  It  was  a  part  of  her  miserable  position,  this  dis- 
simulation. "  Is  six  o'clock  so  late  that  you  should  look 
so  shocked  about  it  ?  I  don't  ask  you  where  you  spent 
your  day.  I  don't  feel  the  least  anxiety  in  the  matter.  I 
have  been  alone  on  the  streets  of  New  York  before  to-night, 
Mr.  Barstone." 

"  We  were  to  have  gone  to  hear  '  Robert  le  Diable '  to- 
night, Magdalen,"  he  said,  offended,  in  spite  of  his 
habitual  gentle  temper,  by  her  words  and  tone.  "  Do 
you  particularly  care  to  go  ?  " 

"  By  no  means  !  On  the  contrary,  I  prefer  remaining 
where  I  am." 

"  1  have  an  invitation  to  meet  a  few  old  friends  this 
evening.     You  will  not  object  to  my  going,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Not  at  all — go,  by  all  means  !  " 

The  utter  indifference  of  her  tone  stung  him  to  the 
heart.  How  little  she  cared  for  him  !  His  outgoings  and 
incomings  were  matters  of  perfect  indifference  to  her* 


IN  WHICH  DOCTOR  PHILIP  DOES  HIS  DUTY.  365 

She  went  out  to  the  parlor,  took  up  a  book  aud  began  to 
read,  and  George,  hurt  and  grieved  beyond  words,  silently 
and  rapidly  made  his  toilet.  He  was  ready  to  go  and 
standing  on  the  threshold  of  the  outer  door  ere  he  spoke 
again. 

*'  Yoa  are  sure  yon  will  not  be  lonely,  Magdalen  ?  " 

"Quite  sure.  Don't  distress  yourself  on  my  account. 
I  will  read  until  I  grow  sleepy,  and  then  go  to  bed.  Pray 
enjoy  yourself  and  go(xl-iiight  !" 

"  She's  only  too  glad  to  be  rid  of  me,"  thought  this  ill- 
nsed  married  man.  "  Pray  enjoy  myself,  indeed  !  I  am 
likely  to,  I  think,  all  things  considered,  and  I  shall  be  a 
very  agreeable  guest  at  Louis  Lefarge's  supper  !  " 

Mr.  Lefarge's  supper  rooms  looked  a  very  cheerful  place, 
this  cold  January  iiiglit.  Many  old  friends  greeted 
George  and  congratulated  him.  Mr.  Ilollis  gazed  at  him 
in  envious  regret  that  he  should  have  won  the  only  woman 
that  ever  fully  answered  his  ideal,  and  Pliilip  Barstone, 
who  was  about  the  gayest  gentleman  present,  and  who  had 
arrived  very  late,  watched  him  furtively  and  curiously.  For 
the  giver  of  the  symposium,  hesatat  the  head  of  his  table, 
and  dipped  into  his  moselle  with  a  tender  melancholy 
upon  him,  befitting  a  man  about  to  enter  on  tliat  unknown 
and  mysterious  land  called  the  "State  of  Matrimony." 

Bohemia  may  not  rank  high  among  the  nations  of  the 
earth,  but  Mr.  Lefarge  had  always  found  it  a  very  pleas- 
ant country,  and  those  dashing  outlaws  of  the  pen,  brush 
and  the  chisel  very  delightful  companions,  indeed  !  And 
after  to-night  he  must  be  an  exile  from  this  flowery  king- 
dom to  visit  it  no  more  forever.  And  for  those  loud 
laughing,  reckless,  clever  brothers  of  his  order,  he  must 
go  down  through  the  vale  of  years  with  Miss  Araminta 
Joggins. 

A  bridegroom-elect  should  be  a  happy  man,  and  no 
doubt  such  Mr.  Lefarge  was  ;  but  it  required  a  strong  rec- 
ollection of  the  Joggins'  hundred  thousand  dollars  to  sus- 
tain his  spirit  on  this  occasion,  lie  sat  mildly  pensive 
while  an  artist  friend  made  a  flowery  little  speech  anent 
the  happy  day  so  close  at  hand — gave  his  host  joy  that  he 
was  so  near  the  blissful  altar  of  Hymen,  before  whose 
magic  slirine  all  earthly  troubles  drop  awav,  and  nothing 
is  left,  when  the  church  register  la  signed,  but  to  live 
happy  forever  aftei. 


166  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

"Perpetual  bliss  !"  grunted  Mr.  Richard  Tompkins,  J&s 
his  eloquent  neighbor  sat  down.  "Egad!  I  should  say 
so,  judging  by  the  looks  of  the  only  married  man  in  the 
company." 

And  tlie  author  pointed  his  fork  at  poor  George's  dis- 
mal  face. 

"I  asked  him  four  times  if  he  would  allow  Mrs.  Bar- 
stone  to  sit  to  me  for  my  Aphrodite,  and  he  never  once 
heard  me,  by  Jove  !  "  murmured  Mr.  Hollis. 

"Let  hiiii  alone,  you  fellows,"  said  their  host.  "I 
know  what  trouble  I  had  to  get  him  to  come.  For  '  think- 
ing of  an  absent  wife  will  blanch  a  faithful  cheek,'  as  Don 
Juan,  or  Ohilde  Harold,  or  some  of  those  poetical  cads, 
remark.  Nevermind,  George,  we'll  let  you  off  early,  and 
even  Mr.  Caudle  might  risk  a  curtain  lecture  on  snch  an 
occasion  as  this.  Tompkins,  we're  getting  melancholy — 
sing  '  Belles  of  Broadway,'  and  raise  our  spirits.  You 
sang  it  horribly  flat  the  last  time  I  heard  you  ;  but  as  it  is 
the  only  tiling  you  know,  and  as  you  will  be  certain  to  in- 
sist upon  our  hearing  it  before  we  separate,  we  had  better 
get  it  over  at  once." 

Mr.  Tompkins  needed  no  second  invitation.  He  rapped 
smartly  on  the  table  Avith  the  bundle  of  his  fruit  knife, 
calling  those  turbulent  bachelors  to  order,  and  rolled  out 
that  spirited  song  in  a  big,  mellow  bass  that  might  have 
been  heard  at  Castle  Garden.  Following  this  eminent 
author  came  lesser  lights,  with  their  after-supper  songs 
in  high  tenor  or  low  bass,  and  as  the  midnight  hours 
rolled  by  the  fun  and  jollity  grew  as  fast  and  furious  as 
the  demon  dance  in  "  Tam  o'  Shanter." 

The  rosey  vintages  passed — cigar  smoke  enveloped  all 
things  in  fragrant  fog,  and  everybody  appeared  to  be  talk- 
ing at  once.  But  through  all  this  revelry  George  Barstone 
kept  unsociably  sober  and  gloomy,  and  he  and  the  giver 
of  the  banquet  were  the  two  death's  heads  at  the  board. 
Mr.  Lefarge,  indeed,  became  altogether  overcome, 
probably  owing  to  the  cigars,  which  were  disgracefully 
strong,  and  was  quite  dissolved  in  tears  at  the  parting 
hour. 

He  wrung  George's  hand,  a  trifle  unsteady  as  to  his 
legs,  and  more  than  a  trifle  watery  as  to  his  eyes,  and 
called  him  the  companion  of  his  infancy— the  playmate 
ol  his  happy,  happy  childhood  !    And  unspeakably  affected 


£N  WHICH  DOCTOR  PHILIP  DOES  HIS  DUTY.  157 

ttt  this  point,  Mr.  Lefarge  sank  sobbing  npon  the  nearest 
sofa,  and  told  them  to  go— to  leave  hitn  to  iiis  miserable 
fate. 

"  Depart !  dejiart  1  "  cried  Miss  Joggins'  affiaiicod,  with 
a  wild  flourish  of  liis  arms.  "Leave  me,  I  conjure  ye! 
'Tis  but  a  passing  weakness    I'll  l)e  myself  to-morrow  !  " 

"  Faith,  I  hope  so  !"  said  Dick  Tompkins,  '*  for  you're 
anything  else  now.  A  man  more  shamefully  disgiiised  in 
liquor  I  never  saw.  I  wish  ]\liss  Joggins  saw  you  this 
minute — she  wouldn't  be  sleeping  with  your  i)hotograph 
pressed  to  her  throbbing  heart,  as  I'll  take  my  oath 
she's  doing.  Give  his  legs  a  hoist,  Phil — let  us  put 
this  sofa  pillow  under  "his  head — there  I  He'll  do 
now.  Good  night,  old  boy — I  think  you'll  sleep  until 
morning  ! " 

"  Sleep  !  sleep  ! "  murmured  Mr.  Lefarge,  rolling  his 
disheveled  head  wildly.  ''Macbeth  hath  murdered  sleep  ! 
Good-ni,  ole  f'ler — gooni  !  " 

And  then  the  earthly  troubles  of  the  bridegroom-elect 
were  ended,  and  he  was  as  sound  asleep  as  a  church.  And 
next  day,  when  he  presented  himself  before  his  Araminta, 
very,  very  pale,  and  with  dark  halos  surrountling  his 
pathetic  black  eyes,  I  don't  think  she  would  have  been 
quite  so  tenderly  solicitous  about  his  health  had  she 
known  that  marble  pallor  was  altogether  owing  to  those 
odious — cigars. 

Philip  Barstone  linked  his  arm  within  that  of  his  cousin, 
as  they  bade  the  other  men  good-night. 

"  I'll  walk  up  to  the  hotel  with  you,  George,"  he  said. 
"The  night's  lovely,  and  my  head  won't  stand  too  much 
of  this  sort  of  thing." 

The  niglit,  or  rather  the  morning,  for  the  louge:=t  of 
the  small  hours  had  come,  the  stars  were  slowly  paling, 
and  a  soft  west  wind  cooled  their  flushed  faces.  Very 
solemn  and  quiet  the  great  turbulent  city  lay,  waiting  the 
birth  of  tlie  new  day. 

**  Your  wife  won't  sit  up  for  you,  of  course.  George  ? 
How  is  she,  by  the  way  ?  You  seemed  out  of  spirits,  I 
fancied,  all  evening,  I  trust  she  hasn't  had  another  attack 
of — that  very  disagreeal)le  headache  ?  " 

The  pause  and  "tlie  significance  of  his  tone  pointed  a 
hidden  meaning  in  his  words  very  plainly.  George  winced 
under  it. 


158  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

"JJ'o,"  he  said;  "  she  did  not  complain — in  fact  she 
said  she  was  quite  well." 

"  You  saw  her,  then,  before  you  left  ?  She  was  at 
home  ?  " 

George  Barstone  looked  sharply  at  the  speaker  ;  but 
the  speaker's  face  was  quite  impassive. 

"I  was  not  aware  you  knew  she  had  been  from  home," 
he  said  ;  "  she  was  out,  certainly.  You  met  her,  I  sup- 
pose ?  " 

"  Not  exactly  ;  but  I  saw  her — I  even  heard  her.  My 
dear  George,  who  was  that  fellow  she  was  with  ?  " 

Again  George  looked  at  his  cousin,  the  red  blood  rush- 
ing hotly,  this  time,  to  his  face. 

"  It's  all  right,  of  course,''  Phil  continued,  not  heeding 
that  startled  gaze  ;  "  but  would  it  not  be  better  for  her 
to  receive  him  at  your  rooms  ?  He  was — I  hope  I  don't 
offend  you,  dear  old  boy — rather  a  disreputable-looking 
companion  for  the  street." 

"  I  don't  understand,  Phil.  She — she  did  not  mention 
being  with  any  one — in  fact,  I  understand  her  to  say  she 
had  been  alone.  The  mistake  was  mine,  of  course.  Where 
did  you  see  them,  and  when  ?" 

"  About  six.  It  was  quite  dark — starlight,  though — 
and  the  place.  Fourteenth  Street,  a  block  or  two  beyond 
the  Academy.  I  was  speaking  to  a  friend  on  his  door- 
step, and  it  was  your  wife's  voice  I  recognized  first — she 
has  a  peculiar  voice,  George — not  loud,  but  very  clear  and 
sweet.  And  the  words  were  so  remarkable  that  even 
Fletcher  my  companion,  turned  to  look  after  her." 

*'  What  did  she  say  ?  " 

That  huskiness  made  George's  voice  anything  but  clear 
and  sweet  now. 

"  The  words  I  heard  her  say  were  these  :  '  You  may 
trust  me.  On  the  road  we  are  treading  there  is  no  turn- 
ing back.  I  will  keep  my  vow — I  will  have  my  revenge 
upon  Maurice  Langley  !  " 

There  was  a  dead  pause.  The  face  of  Magdalen's  hus- 
band, from  red,  had  grown  very  white. 

"  We  do  not  hear  such  tragical  words  from  chance  pass- 
ers-by on  the  streets  every  day,"  Doctor  Philip  went  on. 
"  I  recognized  the  voice,  and,  as  I  turned  round,  they 
were  passing  beneath  a  corner-lamp.  I  saw  your  wife's 
face  distinctly.     Fletcher  laughed  at  the  melodramatic 


IN  WHICH  DOCTOR  PHILIP  DOES  HIS  DUTY.  159 

words.  '  A  very  pretty  girl,'  he  said.  '  Do  you  know  her, 
Barstone  ? '  I  give  you  my  honor,  George,  I  never  was 
more  surprised  in  my  life." 

"And  the  man  ?      George  said,  breatliiiig  hard. 

*'  A  common-looking  fellow  as  ever  I  saw — quite  dis- 
reputable, in  fact — in  a  slouched  hat  and  very  shabby  coat. 
I  could  not  see  his  face,  though  I  tried.  I  got  into  my 
carriage  and  kept  them  in  sight — not  from  prying  curi- 
osity, mind,  George,  but  because — well,  because  I  did 
not  wish  to  see  my  cousin's  wife  there  at  that  hour,  and 
with  such  a  companion.  If  it  were  all  right  (as,  no  doubt, 
it  is),  there  would  be  no  harm  done  ;  she  need  never  know 
if  any  one  insulted  her.  I  was  on  hand  to  protect  her. 
They  parted  on  the  corner  of  Broadway,  and  again,  with 
the  best  of  intentions,  I  was  eavesdropper — I  heard  his 
parting  words." 

"  What  were  they  ?" 

*'  Very  strange  ones,  too.  He  told  her  to  go  to  Wash- 
ington for  a  week — to  make  herself  as  agreeable  as  pos- 
sible, and  to  send  him  some  money — thirty  or  forty  dollars. 
*  You  can  find  your  way  back  alone,  I  suppose  ?'  he  said 
to  her.     '  It  won't  do  for  me  to  be  seen  with  you.* " 

"Well?" 

The  word  came  hoarsely  ;  that  tightening  in  his  throat 
nearly  strangled  him. 

"George,  she  said  yes.  'I'll  send  you  the  money  to- 
morrow,* was  her  expression.  *  I  have  more  than  that  of 
my  own.  I  have  lingered  too  long — I  should  have  been 
back  before  George's  return. '  My  dear  old  fellow,  I  heard 
her  distinctly,  and  I  give  you  my  honor  they  have  troubled 
me  ever  since." 

"They  parted  then  ?" 

"  They  parted — she  hurried  along  Broadway,  and  he 
turned  down  Fourteenth  street  again.  I  kept  him  in  sight 
and  followed  him  to  a  low  street,  close  by  the  East  River. 
That  is  why  I  arrived  so  late  at  Lefarge's.  My  dear 
George,  for  heaven's  sake,  tell  me  you  understand  this, 
and  that  it  is  all  right  ?  " 

"I  understand  nothing  of  it,"  George  answered,  his 
voice  harsh  with  inward  pain  ;  "  she  has  told  me  nothing. 
But  it  is  easily  enough  understood — she  is  once  more  on 
the  trail  of  this  accursed  Maurice  Langley  1  And  I  thought 
Bhe  would  forget  that ! " 


160  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

"And  this  fellow  upon  whose  arm  she  leaned — who 
was  he  ?  " 

George  groaned. 

"  Ah  !  who  was  he  ?    I  wish  I  knew  !    But  I  will  know 

she  shall  tell  me !     He  has  been  writing  her  letters,  too. 

I  can  understand  now  why  she  seemed  so  anxious  to  be 
alone  to-day.  My  God  !  how  deceitful  these  women  are  ! 
And  I  could  have  staked  my  soul  on  her  integrity  !  She 
seemed  the  truest,  the  purest,  as  I  thought  her  the  fairest, 
of  all  her  kind  !  And  now  !  But  I'll  find  out— she  shall 
tell  me  !  It  may  be  all  right— it  must  be  ail  right  !  Stay  ! 
I  have  it  !     Oh,  by  George  1  yes,  she  had  a  brother  !  " 

"  A  brother — a  convict — ah,  yes,  I  recollect.  And  he  is 
free  from  Sing  Sing  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  ;  but  it  must  be  he  !  She  is  insane  on 
the  subject  of  Maurice  Langley.  But  this  man  you  saw 
her  with  is  her  brother.  To-morrow  I  will  ask  her.  She 
is  incapable  of  a  falsehood— she  will  tell  me  all." 

'•'  Let  us  hope  so.  Here  is  your  hotel.  I  trust  I  have 
not  done  wrong,  George,  in  telling  you  this;  I  meant 
well,  at  least."  ^ 

"No,  you  have  not  done  wrong.  I  thank  you.  '  But 
George's  voice  sounded  very  cold  ;  he  did  not  offer  to  shake 
hands.  Othello  was  not  over  and  above  grateful  to  lago 
for  the  good  turn  he  did  him.     "  Good  night,  Phil." 

The  cousins  parted.  Philip  walked  rapidly  away  in  the 
direction  of  Doctor  Masterson's,  and  George  was  alone 
under  the  bleak  morning  sky. 

The  dark  shadows  that  precede  the  coming  day  lay, 
black  and  cold,  over  the  earth  ;  but  darker  than  these,  the 
shadow  of  a  great  trouble  lay  on  George  Barstone's  soul. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

fanny's  good  fortune. 


George  did  not  even  make  a  pretense  of  sleeping  for 
the  few  hours  that  were  left  him  ere  the  great  hotel  was 
astir.  He  sat  in  the  outer  apartment,  and  smoked,  with 
a  most  unwonted  energy,  beside  the  open  window. 

What  were  the  bleak  blasts  of  dawn  to  him  ?  He  had 
something  else  to  think  of.     The  early  morning  grew  rosy 


FANNY'S  GOOD  FORTUNE.  1^1 

red  in  the  east ;  the  first  gold  and  pearly  glimmer  of  the 
rising  sun  gilded  the  spires  and  cupolas  of  the  Empire 
City.  The  crash  of  wheels  over  the  stony  streets  had 
commenced.  It  w:is  seven  o'clock,  and  all  the  world  of 
New  York  was  up  and  doing  once  more. 

Magdalen  slept.  The  night  lamp  hurned  dim  when 
George  had  gone  in  to  look  at  her  once,  llow  ])ale  she 
was  ! — how  pale  ! — how  pale  !  And  she  had  grown  thin  as 
a  shadow  in  these  few  days.  He  had  never  noticed  it  before. 
All  her  lovely  light  hair  floated  over  the  pillow  and  half 
veiled  the  sweet,  slumbering  face.  The  sadness  of  her 
waking  hours  had  not  followed  her  into  dreamland  ;  a 
faint  smile  flickered  around  the  youthful  lips.  Was  that 
the  face  of  a  guilty  woman  ? 

George  stooped  and  kissed  her  softly. 

**  My  darling  !  "  he  said,  with  unutterable  love,  "  when 
you  are  false  there  will  be  no  truth  left  on  earth  !  You 
will  tell  me  all  when  you  awake.'" 

So  this  trusting,  new-made  husband  went  back  to  his 
cigars — man's  best  comforter — and  waited,  with  what 
patience  he  might,  for  his  wife  to  arise  and  appear,  and 
watched,  with  considerable  interest,  the  sky  change  from 
gray  to  crimson,  from  crimson  to  blazing  gold,  and  all  the 
untold  glory  of  sunrise  burst  forth  upon  the  world. 

Mr.  Barstone  regarded  the  phenomenon  in  much  sur- 
prise and  admiration — it  was  something  he  did  not  see 
every  day,  you  understand. 

"Egad!"  he  thought,  ''it's  better  than  the  transfor- 
mation scene  in  the  '  Black  Crook  !  '  The  only  drawback 
is,  we  haven't  to  pay  for  looking  at  it — if  we  liad.  what 
hosts  would  be  early  risers  !  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  the 
sun  rise  before  since  Phil  and  I  used  to  go  bird's  nesting 
in  Millford  woods,  or  took  matutinal  cold  baths  in  the 
Connecticut.     Ileigho  1 " 

He  didn't  say  "  heigho  " — I  don't  think  people  often  do 
in  everyday  life — but  he  sighed  a  sigh  so  deep  that  it  is 
surprising  it  did  not  awaken  Mrs.  Barstone  in  the  next 
room. 

His  thoughts  went  drifting  back  to  those  halcyon  boy- 
ish days,  when  a  grim  old  preceptor  down  in  Millford 
used  to  trounce  hitu  soundly  for  playing  truant,  aiid 
scrawling  surreptitious  notes  to  the  pretty  little  girls  ;  for 
even  at  that  tender  age  this  young  man  had  a  weakness  for 


162  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

the  fair  sex.  Those  blissful  boyish  days,  when  his  heaviest 
troubles '  were  assuaged  by  ten  cents  to  invest  in  sweets, 
and  the  Fonrth  of  July  and  unlimited  fire  crackers  the 
summit  of  earthly  joy.  ,        ht      -d 

Dark  days  had  come  since  then — days  when  Mr.  Bar- 
stone  had  been  not  only  as  drunk  as  a  lord,  but  as  intoxi- 
cated as  a  prince,  if  possible — when  he  had  played  cards, 
and  shook  dice,  and  knocked  about  billiards,  and,  in 
short,  had  been  a  very  black  sheep,  indeed.  There  had 
been  one  misdeed — even  darker  still — so  dark  that  it  made 
liis  face  tingle,  sitting  here  alone,  even  to  look  back  upon. 
Hg  had  reformed  and  repented,  and  even  atoned  for  that 
evil  time ;  but  its  memory  always  brought  a  cloud  over 
his  fair,  frank  face,  and  must  to  his  dying  day. 

His  tempter  and  mentor  had  chiefly  been  his  cousin  ; 
but  never,  even  his  thoughts,  did  honest  George  blame 

'*  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  tell  Magdalen  of  that 
scrape  of  mine,"  he  thought,  moodily  ;  "  but,  hang  it,  it 
doesn't  concern  her  at  all,  and  I  hate  even  to  think  of  it. 
I  don't  want  her  to  despise  me,  and,  by  Jove  !  I  despise 
myself  whenever  I  recall  it." 

George's  watch  pointed  to  half-past  nine  before  Magda- 
len made  her  appearance,  looking  very  pretty  in  her  fresh 
morning  dress.  She  glanced  in  surprise  at  the  quiet 
figure  seated  at  the  window. 

''You,  George!"  she  said,  faintly.  "When  did  you 
return  ? " 

George  arose  and  kissed  her,  and  led  her  to  a  seat  upon 
die  sofa.  He  was  unusually  grave  and  gentle  this  morn- 
ing—unusually pale,  too,  his  wife  saw. 

"At  four  o'clock,  my  dear.  You  were  sleepmg  very 
ocacefully  and  I  would  not  disturb  you." 

"  And  your  party  ?     I  trust  you  found  it  pleasant  ?  " 

She  remembered  AYillie's  injunction  to  "make  herself 
-^reeable,"  but  that  was  not  why  she  spoke  to  him  in  the 
old  way.  It  was  hard  to  remember,  at  all  times,  that  this 
'^cntle-heartcd  gentleman  was  a  cold-blooded  seducer  and 
■-illain— so  impossible  to  realize  it  at  any  time.  She  felt 
trangely  weary  and  weak,  worn  out  already  with  the 
-^leary  part  she  had  to  play.  And  she  loved  him  a  thou- 
„r-nd  times  more  dearly,  it  seemed  to  her,  now  that  he  was 
lost  to  her  forever. 


FANNY'S  GOOD  FORTUNE.  168 

*'The  party  was  pleasant,  ^lagdalen/'  George  answered, 
"but  I  felt  little  })leasure.  I  was  thinking  of  you,  my 
dearest,  alone,  and  ])erhap3  lonely,  here." 

He  drew  her  head  down  on  his  shoulder,  and-  stroked 
caressingly  the  sunshiny  tresses.  She  let  it  lie,  while  the 
slow  tears  welled  up  in  her  closed  eyes.  He  was  so  inex- 
pressibly dear  to  her  !  and  he  loved  her  so  tenderly  I  so 
truly  !  and  in  a  few  short  weeks,  at  most,  she  must  tear 
herself  from  him  forever. 

"  Oh,  George,  George  !"  she  sobbed,  suddenly  clasping 
him  in  her  arms,  tlie  liysterical  sobs  choking  her  voice. 
*'  George, — my  husband  !  my  darling  !  how  good  you  are 
to  me,  and  I  — oh,  my  God  I  what  a  lost,  lost  creature  I 
am!" 

George  let  her  cry  her  trouble  out  without  a  word  of  in- 
quiry or  explanation.  Ho  stroked  the  sunny  hair  he 
thought  so  beautiful,  and  called  her  softly  by  tender 
names,  and  presently  the  wild  sobbing  and  raining  tears 
died  away,  and  she  lay  exhausted  and  tranquil.  Then 
this  long-suffering  husband  spoke  : 

"  Magdalen,  my  love,  what  is  it  ?  What  is  this  trouble 
that  has  come  upon  you  ?  Oh,  Magdalen,  speak  and  tell 
me  what  is  this  cloud  that  has  come  between  us  ?  What 
have  I  done  in  the  past  or  in  the  present  to  lose  your 
love  ! " 

A  daring  question  surely  for  Maurice  Langley  to  ask  I 
But  Magdalen  was  too  completely  done  out  to  feel  even 
indignation  at  this  barefaced  audacity. 

"Don't  ask  me,  George,"  she  said,  with  inexpressible 
weariness.  "  Nothing,  if  you  like.  I  am  only  a  weak, 
foolish  girl — and  I  have  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  my 
life.  Don't  mind  me  ;  I  am  nervous  and  hysterical,  and 
out  of  sorts." 

"  But  not  without  cause.  Something  new  has  happened. 
That  is  not  the  old  trouble  surely  ;  it  is  something  new — • 
something  worse." 

"Nothing  could  be  worse.  Pray,  pray,  George,  don't 
talk  about  it.     Let  me  be  at  rest,  if  I  can  !  " 

At  rest !  She  drew  a  long  heart-sick  sigh,  and  bowed 
her  face  lower  on  his  shoulder.  That  should  have  been 
her  resting-place  for  life  ;  but  oh  !  so  soon  I  so  soon  she 
must  quit  it  forever.  She  forgot  her  sorrow  for  Laura  in 
her  sorrow  for  the  husband  who  loved  and  must  lose  her, 


164  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

"  Dearest  Magdalen  !  clearest  love  !  dearest  wife  !  you 
know  I  would  not  say  one  word  to  pain  or  trouble  yon.  I 
would  give  my  very  life  for  you,  if  necessary,  liut  this  is 
sometlnng  I  cannot  so  easily  drop,  for  more  than  life  is  at 
stake  here — honor  !  " 

She  lifted  her  head  swiftly  and  looked  at  him. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked,  in  an  altered  voice. 

"  This  :  Who  was  that  man  with  whom  you  were  walk- 
ing along  Fourteenth  street  last  night  ?  " 

The  color  rushed  in  a  red  tide  to  her  face.  She  had 
been  seen  then  !  and  one  of  Willie's  last  injunctions  had 

been  :  ,     •         i 

"  Don't  let  Langley  know  I  am  at  large  ;  he  is  so  deep, 
and  subtle,  and  double-dyed  a  villain  that  he  would  slip 
through  my  hands  like  an  eel  if  he  found  it  out.  If  he 
ever  asks  you  of  me,  let  him  still  think  I  am  in  Sing 
Sin?  " 

She  drew  herself  entirely  away  at  the  nnlooked-for 
question,  that  guilty  flush  hot  upon  her  face. 

''Who  was  he,  Magdalen?"  George  repeated,  **thi8 
man  who  writes  you  letters  I  may  not  see — whom  you 
meet  by  nightfall  in  the  streets  !     Who  is  he  ?  " 

('  A — a  friend — a  person  I  used  to  know." 

"  A  friend  !  But  why  cannot  your  husband  see  the 
letters  your  masculine  friend  writes  you,  and  why  not  re- 
ceive him  here  ?  Any  friend  of  yours  will  be  heartily 
welcomed  by  me." 

i'  He he   is  poor — very   poor — unable  to  dress   as  he 

would  like,  and  ashamed  to  present  himself  before  you." 

"  Magdalen,"  George  said,  chilled  and  pained,  "  are  you 
telling  me  the  truth '?— are  you  not  equivocating  ?  Tell 
me  this  man's  name." 

''  His  name  is  Johnstone." 

It  was  the  alias  Willie  had  assumed  since  leaving  prison, 
the  better  to  keep  up  his  disguise  ;  but  oh,  how  Magdalen 
hated  herself  as  she  spoke  it  !  How  mean,  how  base,  how 
utterly  despicable  all  this  deception  seemed  ! 

George's  heart  sank.     It  was  not  her  brother,  after  all. 

"  Is  he  a  relative  ?"  he  asked. 

*'  Yes,"  Magdalen  answered,  with  angry  impatience, 
rising  from  her  seat ;  "he  is  a  relative  !  Are  you  jealous, 
George  Barstone  ?  You  do  well— you,  of  all  men  alive— 
to  demand  that  your  wife  shall  be,  like  Caesar's,  above 
reproach ! " 


FANNY'S  GOOD  FORTUNE.  165 

She  laughed  bitterly — she  was  hysterical  still,  and  lialf 
wild  with  pain  and  grief,  and  shame. 

"And  why  not  I,  Magdalen  ?  I  am  not  jealous  as  yet, 
though  I  am  not  aware  of  having  forfeited  the  right  to  be 
so.  1  am  only  grieved  that  my  wife  should  have'  secrets 
from  me — vexed  that  she  should  give  others  an  oppor- 
tunity of  speaking  of  her,  by  meeting  disreputable  men  in 
the  public  streets  after  nightfall." 

"  Who  saw  me  ?  "  Magdalen  demanded.  "  It  was  some 
one  at  the  party.  You  didn't  know  when  you  went  out. 
Your  ubiquitous  cousin,  Phil,  perhaps  ?  I  have  gone 
nowhere,  as  yet,  that  I  have  not  seen  him.  Ah  !  I  see  I 
am  right.  IIow  magnaiiimous  of  him  to  play  the  jiart  of 
duenna,  and  hasten  to  inform  you  I  I  disliked  him  from 
the  first — think  of  how  I  must  love  him  now  !  " 

She  spoke  rapidly  and  recklessly.  Her  blood  was  up 
and  she  was  equal  to  anything. 

**  This  man,  with  whom  Doctor  Philip  Barstone  saw  me, 
is,  as  I  saitl,  a  relative — a  poor  one — a  disreputable  one,  if 
you  like  ;  but  blood  is  thicker  than  water,  and  when  he 
asked  nie  to  see  him,  I  went,  and  when  he  asked  nie  for 
help,  I  gave  it.  He  will  not  come  here.  Disreputable 
people  are  sensitive,  sometimes,  and  these  outcasts  of 
society  have  an  instinctive  repulsion  to  meeting  eminently 
virtuous  and  respectable  people  like  yourself  and  your 
cousin.  I  come  of  a  very  bad  and  utterly  worthless 
family,  Mr.  Barstone,  as  1  think  I  told  you  before.  A 
deceived  sister,  who,  I  dare  say,  deserved  the  fate  she  met, 
for  trusting  a  scoundrel  and  running  asvay  from  homo 
with  liim — a  convict  brother — a  gambler,  a  forger,  for 
whom  Sing  Sing  is  too  good  and,  last,  but  not  least,  this 
shabby  fellow,  who  dares  not  come  here  and  face  the  gen- 
tleman who  has  married  his — relative,  or  any  other  honest 
and  upright  man — what  can  you  expect  of  me,  coming  of 
such  a  race  ?  I  am  afraid  you  did  a  very  unwise  thing  in 
marrying  Magdalen  Wayne,  the  governess,  Mr.  Bar- 
stone !  " 

She  was  pacing  up  and  down,  with  the  air  of  a  tragedy 
queen,  her  eyes  flashing,  her  cheeks  aflame,  her  voice 
ringing  with  excitement. 

George  sat  shocked  lieyond  words. 

"Magdalen  !  Magdalen  I  "'  he  said,  "for  pity's  sake  sit 
down — calm  yourself — be  reasonable — don't  talk  and  look 


166  MAGDALE^*'S  VOW. 

in  that  frantic  way  !  1  will  ask  you  no  more  qnestions — 
I  will  wait — I  willlove  yon  and  trust  you  through  every- 
thing ;  and,  some  day,  I  know  you  will  come  to  me  of 
yourself  and  tell  me  all." 

Magdalen  flung  up  both  arms,  and  tossed  her  hair  back 
wildly. 

'*  Take  me  away  !  "  she  cried  ;  "  take  me  away  from  this 
horrible  city — take  me  away  from  this  great,  pitiless, 
wicked  New  York,  or  I  shall  go  mad  !  Take  me  to  Mill- 
ford — to  Washington — anywhere  !  Take  me  away  from 
myself,  George  Barstone,  if  you  can  !  '' 

He  drew  her  to  his  heart,  and  soothed  her  as  he  might 
a  child. 

'*  You  shall  go,"  he  answered,  "  this  very  day.  We 
will  visit  Washington,  as  we  had  intended,  and  return 
from  thence  home.  Calm  yourself,  my  dearest.  You 
have  wrought  yourself  too  an  insane  pitch  of  nervous  ex- 
citement. Calm  yourself,  my  dearest  girl,  and  come  down 
with  me  to  breakfast." 

And  so  George's  explanation  was  at  an  end,  and  he  was 
not  much  wiser  or  better  satisfied  than  before. 

Of  his  wife's  integrity  he  had  not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt. 
He  was  not  one  of  those  unhappy  men,  inclined  to  be  jeal- 
ous. He  believed  what  he  had  heard— that  this  mysteri- 
ous Johnstone  was  a  needy  relative — but  that  did  not  by 
any  means  satisfy  him. 

It  was  no  agreeable  thing  to  have  his  wife  receiving 
letters,  even  from  relatives,  that  he  must  not  see  and 
stealing  out  for  interviews  that  he  must  not  overhear. 

His  open,  good-tempered  face  was  still  sadly  overcast  as 
he  strolled  out,  after  breakfast,  to  pay  a  parting  visit  to 
his  cousin. 

"I  can't  leave  New  York  without  telling  Phil  it's  all 
right,"  he  thought.  "  It  won't  do  to  leave  a  wrong  im- 
pression on  his  mind  in  regard  to  my  poor,  nervous  girl. 
And  I  won't  stop  in  this  confounded  city  iipon  my  return. 
I've  not  had  a  day's  peace  since  I  entered  it." 

The  stoical  boy  in  buttons,  named  Samuel,  admitted 
Mr.  Barstone,  and  jerked  his  head  in  the  direction  of 
Doctor  Masterson's  breakfast-room,  in  reply  to  that  gentle- 
man's inquiry  for  his  cousin. 

"Just  had  breakfast— reading  the  paper  now.  Half- 
past  eleven  and  two  dozen  of  patients  waiting,  savage,  in 


FANNY'S  GOOD  FORTUNE.  1G7 

the  office  ;  but  Lor,'  he  don't  care.  Coming  I  Oli  !  darn 
you,  ciin't  you  wait  ?  "  this  to  the  office  bell,  which  kept 
up  a  perpetual  jingle. 

George  ta2)ped  at  the  brown  panels,  and  a  familiar  voice 
responded  : 

"  If  that's  you,  Samuel,  I'll  break  your  head  if  you  come 
in  !     I  shan't  see  anybody,  I  tell  you,  for  twenty  minutes 

"  As  it  doesn't  happen  to  be  Samuel,  I'll  venture  in," 
said  George,  entering.  "  Perhaps  you'll  do  me  the  honor 
of  seeing  me  ?  Doctoring  must  be  pleasant  business,  and 
conducive  to  easy  digestion,  I  should  think,  if  this  is  the 
way  you  spend  your  mornings.  I  low  many  hours  out  of 
twenty-four  do  you  work,  Phil  ?" 

Doctor  Philip  was  seated  before  the  window,  lying  back 
in  an  easy-chair,  liis  legs  elevated  upon  the  sill,  a  cigar  in 
his  month,  the  Herald  in  his  hand.  lie  lowered  that 
sheet,  and  looked  resignedly  at  the  intruder. 

**  Ah,  George  I  how  do  you  do  ?  I  v*asn't  aware  it  was 
your  habit  to  call  upon  people  in  the  middle  of  the  night. 
I  won't  say  glad  to  see  you,  because  I'm  not,  at  this  hour. 
Perhaps  you'd  better  find  a  seat.  I  haven't  half  finished 
the  matrimonial  advertisements,  but  pray  don't  hurry  your- 
self on  that  account." 

**  I  won't,"  said  George,  taking  a  chair.  "  Phil,  I 
wouldn't  be  so  infernally  lazy  as  you  are  for  all  the  gold 
in  Ophir." 

"  Wouldn't  you,  dear  boy.  All  a  matter  of  taste. 
'Hurry  is  the  devil's',  says  an  Arabian  proverb.  I  am 
never  in  a  hurry,  I  am  happy  to  say.  And  now,  as  you 
are  here,  unfold  your  errand.  Is  it  professional  ?  If  so, 
you  should  have  gone  round  to  the  office  with  the  rest  of 
'em.  Did  the  lobster  salad  and  claret  cup  disagree  with 
you  last  night,  and  do  you  want  me  to  prescribe  for  you  ? 
Put  out  your  tongue." 

"  God  forbid  !"  returned  George,  in  unfeigned  horror. 
"  When  I  want  any  one  to  prescribe  for  me,  don't  flatter 
yourself  I'll  trouble  you.  Doctor  Barstone.  Disagree  with 
me  !  Nothing  ever  disagreed  with  me  in  my  life  in  the 
way  of  eating  and  drinking.  No,  I  came  to  say  good-by. 
We're  off  this  afternoon,  and  uncommonly  glad  I  am  to 
shake  the  dust  of  your  dirty,  noisy,  stonv  citv,  off  my 
feet." 


1C8  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

**  I  dare  say  New  York  won't  miss  you  much,  and  where 
are  you  going,  may  I  ask  ?  To  the  capital  of  this  mighty 
nation,  to  finish  your  month  of  post-nuptial  banishment  ? 
Or,  are  you  going  to  snap  your  fingers  at  Mrs.  Grundy  and 
boldly  return  to  Millford — to  the  smoke  and  the  factories, 
and  all  the  sweet  spots  which  our  infancy  knew  ? 
Hey  ?  " 

"  Vm  going  to  Washington,"  said  George,  "  to  remain 
a  week — from  thence  straight  home.  So,  if  you  want  to 
say  adieu  to  Mrs.  Barstone,  you  had  better  call  within  the 
next  hour  and  a  half." 

"  I  shall  call,  most  certainly.  And  how  is  Mrs.  Bar- 
stone  this  morning  ?  " 

"  Very  well — that  is,  pretty  well — a  little  nervous  and 
hysterical,  I  think.  I — that  is — she  told  me  about  that 
little  affair  of  last  evening,  Phil." 

"  Oh,  she  did  ! "  Phil  said,  with  a  curious  side  glance. 
**  And  it's  all  right,  I  suppose.  The  fellow  was  her 
brother  ? " 

"  No — not  her  brother — but  a  relative,  cousin,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort." 

"  Not  her  brother  !  "  Doctor  Barstone  repeated,  slowly, 
"  A  cousin,  or  something  of  that  sort.  It  strikes  me  you 
all  informed  me  Mrs.  Barstone  had  no  relatives." 

"  Well,  perhaps  we  thought  so.  She  has,  it  seems. 
This  Johnstone  has  but  lately  come  to  New  York,  and  is 
very  poor  and  won't  visit  her  at  the  hotel.  He  asked  her 
to  lend  him  some  money  for  the  present,  and  she  has  done 
so," 

George  made  this  explanation  with  a  certain  angry 
impatience  in  his  face.  It  sounded  lame  and  unsatis- 
factory, and  there  was  a  faint,  flickering  smile  around  his 
cousin's  mustached  lips  that  exasperated  him. 

"  And  his  name's  Johnstone — and  he  won't  come  to  the 
hotel.  Dear  !  dear  !  how  unfortunate  your  joretty  wife  is 
in  her  relatives.  I  hope  you  did  not  tell  her  I  was  your 
informant,  George  ?  But,  of  course  you  did.  So  loyal  a 
husband  and  wife  can  by  no  i^ossibility  have  any  secrets 
from  each  other." 

"  None  of  your  sneers,  Phil.  I  did  not  tell  her.  She 
asked  me  point  blank  if  it  wasn't  you,  and  I  suppose  ray 
face  told  her  the  truth.  She  doesn't  like  you,  Phil — I  can 
tell  you  that," 


'  FANNY'S  GOOD  FORTUNE.  1C9 

*' Unhappy  wretch  that-  1  am  !  And  my  pretty  new 
cousin  doesn't  like  me.     Why,  I  wonder  ?" 

**  I  don't  know,-'  said  George,  doggedly,  with  his  hands 
deep  in  his  pants'  pockets  ;  "no  more  does  she,  but  she 
don't." 

"  I  do  not  like  yon,  Doctor  Fell,  the  reason  why  I  can- 
not tell,"  murniured  the  young  physician.  "  But  J'm  not 
surprised — it's  my  usual  wretched  luck.  Ah,  George,  wo 
can't  all  be  born  conquerors  of  the  pretty  ones,  like  you  ! 
Why,  when  you  were  in  pinafores,  and  made  mud-pies 
down  in  Millford,  I  remember  little  girls  in  pantalettes 
used  to  wash  your  dirty  face  for  you  and  kiss  you  after- 
ward. Even  at  that  tender  age,  my  George,  you  w^erc 
irresistible." 

"  Oh,  hang  it,  Phil  ! "  exclaimed  George,  getting  up, 
"none  of  your  chaff.  If  you  feel  like  calling  to  say  good- 
by — call.  If  you  don't,  why  it  makes  no  difference.  Aunt 
Lydia  would  like  to  see  you.  AVhen  shall  I  say  you  will 
be  at  Golden  Willows  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  the  doctor  answered,  in  a 
despondent  tone.  "Fanny's  there,  and  Fanny's  a  little 
too  much  for  me.  I'm  poor,  but  honest.  I  can't  afford  to 
marry  that  girl,  and  her  intentions  are  a  little  too  pointed. 
Girls  in  New  York  make  love  to  a  fellow  when  they  get  a 
chance,  but  a  fellow  can  break  away  from  them.  At 
Golden  Willows  I'm  alone  and  unprotectetl,  and  Miss 
Winters  shows  no  quarter.  I  should  like  to  go  back,  to 
throw  physic  to  the  dogs  for  a  month  or  two  ;  but  if  Fan 
asks  me  to  marry  her,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  I  give  you  my 
word  that  was  why  I  didn't  go  to  the  wedding.  I  can 
stand  her  letters  (I  don't  read  them),  but  herself — no  ! 
George  give  Aunt  Lydia  my  best  affection,  but  my  peace 
of  mind  is  dear  to  me — I  can't  go." 

The  last  of  this  mild  appeal  was  murmured  to  the  walls, 
for  George  Barstone  had  seized  his  hat  and  departed  in 
disgust. 

"Gone!"  Phil  said,  glancing  after  him,  "and  there's 
been  an  explanation,  has  there  ?  ami  the  cavalier  of  last 
night  wasn't  the  convict  brother,  after  all,  but  a  party  by 
the  name  of  Johnstone.  My  dear,  gullible  George  !"  he 
laughed  softly  ;  "  how  the  silliest  girl  iji  her  teens  can 
twist  these  big,  learned,  wise  men  around  their  dear  little 
fingers.      Oh,   Delilah  I   oh,   Omphale  !  you  flourish  yet, 


170  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

and  will  while  this  big  world  wags.  I  wish  I  could  see  the 
pretty  Magdalen's  game  clearly,  but  I  don't.  I  wish  I 
could  go  down  east  and  keep  my  eye  upon  her.  She's  an 
interesting  study,  but  Fauny's  there,  as  I  said  to  George, 
and  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  can  stand  Fanny.  Yes,  I'll  call 
and  say  good-by  to  this  blue-eyed,  fair-haired  divinity  of 
Mr.  Hollis'  dreams — I  want  to  see  her  once  more.  I  wish 
she  didn't  look  so  confoundedly  like — "  Doctor  Philip  got 
slowly  up  and  donned  his  coat,  which  lay  ready  brushed 
upon  a  chair.  "  And  she  doesn't  like  me,  and  she  doesn't 
know  why.     Odd,  that  !  " 

Doctor  Barstone  went  blandly  in  among  the  waiting 
patients,  and  was  kept  there  over  an  hour.  When  he 
drove  away  from  the  house,  his  first  visit  was  to  the  St. 
Nicholas,  where  he  found  his  cousin's  wife  alone,  writing 
a  letter. 

She  put  the  letter  out  of  sight  at  his  entrance,  and  re- 
ceived him  about  as  cordially  as  a  statue  of  ice  might  have 
done,  listening  frigidly  to  his  civil  speeches  and  messages 
for  home,  and  never  once  deigning  to  unbend.  The  call 
was  necessarily  of  the  briefest — even  Doctor  Philip's  as- 
surance could  make  little  headway  here. 

The  letter  Magdalen  was  writing  was  to  Willie,  and 
was  without  date  or  signature. 

''I  enclose  you  forty  dollars,"  she  wrote.  "Make  it 
last  as  long  as  possible.  I  have  but  little  more  of  my  own, 
and  in  this  matter  I  can  never  ask  G.  for  money.  We 
were  seen  last  night.  I  can  meet  you  no  more  for  the 
present.  We  leave  for  AVashiugton  to-day.  In  a  week 
we  will  be  at  home.  You  can  either  write  or  come  to  me 
there." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barstone  departed  for  Washington,  and 
George  did  his  best  to  keep  Magdalen  constantly  amused 
with  the  sights  of  that  city.  Magdalen  was  very  quiet ; 
there  were  no  more  outbursts  ;  but  day  by  day  she  grew 
wanner  and  thinner,  and  the  smiles  that  came  and  went 
were  no  more  like  the  old  smiles  than  starlight  is  to  sun- 
light. She  was  glad,  when  the  week  drew  to  an  end,  to 
get  back  to  Golden  Willows.  Once  there,  this  wretched 
trouble  must  speedily  culminate  in  some  way  ;  and  any- 
thing was  better  than  this  life  of  deception  and  forced 
endurance. 

On   the  day  of  their   departure,  as  they  sat  at  tea  in 


FAXNY'S  GOOD  FORTUNE.  171 

cheir  own  apartments — for  Magdalen's  head  ached — a 
waiter  came  in  with  letters— two  for  Magdalen,  one  for 
George.  His  was  from  Aunt  Lydia,  hers  from  Willie  and 
Fanny  Winters. 

She  opened  Willie's  recklessly.  It  contained  but  three 
lines. 

"  Dear  M. — Received  money;  thanks.  Will  follow  you 
to  G.  W.  next  week,  and  tell  you  all — the  darkest  part  oi- 
this  dark  story.  W." 

There  was  an  exclamation  from  George.  Magdalen 
crushed  tlie  note  in  her  hand  and  looked  up.  lie  was  star- 
ing at  Miss  Barstono's  epistle. 

"  Look  at  Fanny's  letter,  Magdalen,''  he  said.  **  Here's 
a  streak  of  luck  !  '  She's  been  left  a  fortune  ! " 

"  A  fortune  ?  " 

*<Yes — sixty  thousand  dollars.  Pretty  well,  I  think. 
A  maternal  uncle  has  died  out  in  Sacramento  and  made 
her  his  heiress.  Read  her  letter  and  you  will  hear  all 
about  it," 

Magdalen  opened  the  pink-tinted,  highly-perfumed 
missive ;  eight  closely  written  pages,  crossed  and  re- 
crossed — "plaid  letters,"  as  George  called  them. 

Fannv's  delight  was  boundless  ;  a  whole  quire  of  paper 
■would  not  have  held  it.  Here  was  romaiice  all  at  once  ! 
She  was  an  heiress  !  Sixty  thousand  dollars  to  do  just 
what  you  pleased  with  !  "Oh,  Magdalen  !  Magdalen  ! 
wasn't  it  splendid  !" 

"  I  am  writing  to  Phil  by  this  post,"  said  the  heiress,  in 
a  postscript.  "  Of  course  he  doesn't  care,  but  I  must  tell 
him  of  it.  And  I'm  going  to  have  a  lady's  maid,  Mag- 
dalen, to  do  my  hair,  and  lace  my  Halmorals,  and  button 
my  dresses,  and  wash  my  hands  and  face,  if  I  like.  Ami 
I  hope  Aunt  Lydia's  head  won't  ache  until  she  gets  me  to 
consent  to  have  another  governess.  When  a  person  has 
sixty  thousand  dollars  to  do  just  wliat  she  likes  with,  she 
can  get  along,  I  hope,  without  any  help  from  Murray's 
Grammar  or'Webster's  Dictionary.  Won't  we  have  our 
'  At  Home  '  when  you  come  home  ?  and  won't  I  have 
diamonds,  and  moires,  and  as  many  new  novels  as  1  like 
to  read  ?  Do — do  hurry  back  !  I  have  fifty  thousand 
things  to  say  to  you,  and  1  am  your  affectionate 

"  Fanny." 


173  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

Fanny  had  written  to  Phil.  At  that  very  hour,  in 
New  York,  he  sat  reading  her  letter.  And  this  is  what 
Fanny  wrote  : 

"  Dearest  Phil  : — 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  positive,  *'dear,"  not  super- 
lative, 'dearest;'  but  oli,  I'm  so  happy  I  can't  help  it! 
No,  I  don't  mean  that  I'm  happy — I'm  dreadfully  un- 
happy ;  but  I  mean  that  I've  had  sixty  thousand  dollars 
left  me  by  ma's  brother,  out  in  California.  Ma's  brother 
is  one's  uncle,  of  course  ;  but  one  can't  be  dreadful  sorry 
for  an  uncle  one  never  saw  since  they  were  three  months 
old — now  can  they  ?  Of  course  I'll  go  in  mourning  ;  and 
as  it's  cold  weather,  and  as  black  becomes  me — my  dress- 
maker says — I  don't  so  much  mind.  But  oh,  Phil,  I'm 
not  one  bit  happy  !  People  may  think  that  sixty  thou- 
sand dollars  is  happiness,  but  it  isn't.  Of  course,  it's 
very  nice,  and  I'm  awful  glad  to  get  it ;  but  there's  an 
aching  void  in  my  heart  that  even  sixty  thousand  dollars 
— and  it's  a  good  deal — can't  fill.  Don't  mention  this  to 
George.  I  would  never  hear  the  last  of  his  stupid  jokes 
about  it.  George  has  no  soul !  He  thinks,  because  a 
person  has  a  very  good  appetite,  and  grows  fat — not  that  I'm 
fat,  I  only  measure  twenty-eight  inches  round  the  waist, 
and  I  used  to  measure  thirty — he  thinks,  George  does,  a 
person  has  no  secret  trouble.  Oh,  Phil,  I'm  so  lonely — so 
lonely,  sometimes  !  I  sit  up-stairs  and  weep  by  myself  ; 
and  I  wonder  what  you  are  doing,  moving  amid  the  festal 
throng,  I  dare  say  the  gayest  of  the  gay,  and  never  think- 
ing once  of  poor,  lonely  Fanny  I  I  picture  you,  Phil,  in 
the  whirl  of  dissipation,  in  white  vest  and  white  kid 
gloves,  looking  oh,  so  pale  and  handsome — George  says 
you're  yellow  ;  but  you're  not,  you  know — and  flying 
through  the  giddy  waltz,  with  some  lovely  being  in  your 
arms  !  But  oh,  Phil,  don't  quite  forget  your  Fanny — 
think  of  me  sometimes,  in  the  lonely  twilight,  sitting  des- 
olate at  niy  bedroom  window,  gazing  at  the  peaceful  stars 
and  so  dreary,  and  so  sad,  and  so  utterly  alone  in  the  wide 
earth  !  No, "indeed  !  Sixty  thousand  dollars  is  very  well 
in  its  way,  and  I'm  going  to  have  jewels,  and  splendid 
dresses,  and  French  confectionery,  and  travel  over  the 
world  ;  but  it  cannot  restore  peace  to  an  aching  heart ! 
And  if  yon  want  money,  Phil,  you  may  have  it  all — yes. 


'*AND  YET  MY  DAYS  GO  ON,  GO  ON."     173 

evevy  cent — and  I'll  do  without  the  dresses  and  things, 
more  than  repaid  by  a  smile  and  a  'Tliankyou,  Fan!' 
And  by  and  by,  when  you  marry.  Phil,  some  tall,  dark, 
handsome,  haughty,  beautiful  lady,  not  a  bit  like-  me, 
you'll  ask  me  to  come  and  see  you,  won't  you  ?  And 
you'll  keep  a  little,  tiny  corner  of  your  lieart,  in  spite  of 
your  beautiful  wife,  for  your  loving  and  lonely  (though 
people  may  tliink  her  fortunate)  cousin.  Fanny." 

^«  p.  Juj. — Do  comedown  to  Golden  Willows  soon,  Phil, 
and  make  us  a  long  visit.  Why  need  you  kill  yourself 
with  horrid  hard  work,  there  in  Xew  York,  when  we  all 
want  you  here  so  much  ?  Ah,  do  come,  please  I  I  want 
to  see  you  awfully  !  F.  W." 

Philip  Barstone  road  this  letter  over  very  slowly,  then 
deliberately  twisted  it  up,  held  it  over  the  gas,  and  lit 
his  cigar. 

"The  die  is  cast!"  said  Doctor  Masterson's  assistant, 
puffing  away.  "  Fortune  has  befriended  me  at  last. 
Sixty  thousand  dollars  bequeathed  to  that  girl  !  I'll  go 
down  to  Golden  Willows,  court  her,  and  marry  her  out  of 
hand,  and  leave  the  country  forever.  Aching  void  in  her 
heart,  indeed  !  AVe'U  set  that  all  right  before  long,  Miss 
Fanny  Winters  I" 


CHAPTER  XX. 

*' AND   YET   MY    DAYS    GO   ON,    GO    ON." 

The  Ides  of  February  had  come.  It  was  the  third  of 
the  month,  verv  late  in  the  afternoon,  when  Miss  Fanny 
Winters  drove,'in  the  family  sleigh,  down  to  the  Millford 
Station,  to  wait  for  the  6.50  train.  She  drove  through 
the  starry  twilight,  as  in  a  triumphant  chariot,  to  bring 
the  bride  and  bridegroom  home. 

Miss  Winters  was  elaborately  got  up  in  white  fur  and 
black  velvet,  and  with  her  rosy  cheeks  glowing,  and  her 
rather  small  eves  sparkling,  looked  quite  pretty  enough, 
in  herself,  to  attract  the  attention  of  sundry  young  Mill- 
ford  gentlemen,  hanging  about  the  depot,  without  any  aid 
from  a  recent  fortune.     But  the  news  had  spread,  and  Miss 


174  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

Winters  and  her  lucky  windfall  had  created  no  small  sensa- 
tion in  her  native  town;  and  those  young  men  flocked  around 
the  heiress,  and  vied  with  each  other  in  paying  her  court. 
This  was  the  realization  of  Fanny's  dreams.  This  was 
life  !  This  was  bliss  !  To  be  surrounded  by  half  a  dozen 
of  the  best-looking  young  men  in  the  town,  ready  to  blow 
each  other's  brains  out  for  the  favor  of  her  smile. 

And  I  am  bound  to  say  Miss  Winters,  for  a  young  lady 
with  a  secret  sorrow  upon  her,  sliowered  those  smiles  ra- 
diantly right  and  left,  and  made  herself  indiscriminately 
delightful.  Had  she  been  a  beauty,  she  would  have  been 
the  veriest  flirt  that  ever  tormented  mankind.  As  she 
providentially  was  not,  she  made  tlie  most  of  her  new  ac- 
cession to  power  now. 

The  train  came  thundering  into  the  gas-lighted  station, 
and  the  passengers  began  flocking  out.  Miss  Winters,  on 
the  arm  of  the  most  devoted  of  her  new-found  worshipers, 
advanced  eagerly  to  meet  Magdalen.  She  did  not  care  in 
the  least  to  see  George.  She  entertained  rather  a  feeling 
of  contempt  for  that  legal  gentleman,  who  yawned  hor- 
ribly when  she  tried  to  read  aloud  the  "  Princess,"  and 
told  her  to  "  stop  that  rot,"  when  she  quoted  copiously  from 
the  ''  Eevolt  of  Islam."  But  to  the  properly  constituted 
female  mind,  a  bride  is  the  most  interesting  of  earthly  ob- 
jects, except  a  new  bonnet  or  a  new  baby,  and  Fanny 
pressed  excitedly  through  the  throng  to  fling  herself  in 
Magdalen's  arms. 

"  I  say,    look   out,    Miss  Winters,"  her    conductor  ex- 
claimed,  "  or  you'll   get  trodden   down    in   this    crush. 
Now,  then,    you  old    kangaroo,    what  do   you  mean   by 
elbowing  a  young   lady  in    that   fashion,"  and  here  the 
rfniidei^s  hat   was    tilted  angrily   over  his  nose.     ''Oh, 
e  thev  are  at  last !" 

"  Is  that  other  gentleman  one  of  'em,  Fanny  ?  He 
looks  enough  like  George  to  be  a  long-lost  brother." 

Fannv  uttered  a  shriek — a  shriek  of  pure  joy. 

''  ItVPhil ! "  she  cried,  "  it's  Phil  !  Oh  !  Mr.  Howard, 
do  let  us  get  through  this  crowd." 

She  never  once  looked  at  Magdalen  now.  Was  not  that 
tall,  sallow,  dark-eyed  young  man  standing  there,  and  was 
not  the  dull,  half-lighted  little  station  turned  into  glori- 
fied, sunlit  Elysian  fields  all  at  once  for  this  girl  in  love.  ^ 

Doctor  Philip  Barstoue  had  sent  no  intimation  of  big 


"AND  YET  MY  DAYS  GO  ON,  GO  ON.**      175 

intended  visit,  and  had  surprised  his  relatives  by  walking 
into  the  steamer,  at  the  foot  of  Canal  street,  upon  the 
evening  of  tlieir  return  from  Washington,  and  announcing 
his  intention  of  returning  to  Millford  with  them.  It  was 
he  who  first  spied  the  eager,  panting,  wildly  excited  little 
heiress  now. 

"There's  Fan,"  he  said,  coolly,  "battling  frantically  to 
get  at  us.     This  way,  George — don't  yon  see  her  ?" 

A  second  later  and  he  was  beside  her. 

With  a  cry  of  irrepressible  ecstasy,  Fannie  flung  herself 
into  his  arms  and  kissed  him  on  the  spot.  Was  he  not  a 
sort  of  cousin,  fourteen  or  fifteen  times  removed,  and 
was  it  not  a  proper  and  commendable  thing  to  kiss  one's 
cousin  ? 

"Oh,  Phil  !  Phil!  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  !  Oh,  I 
thought  you  would  come — ^I  thought  you  wouldn't  forget 
us  altogetlier.  Oh,  what  a  surprise  this  is,  and  how  glad 
Aunt  Lydia  will  be  ! " 

"  Faith,  I  think  so,  if  she's  half  as  glad  as  her  niece," 
said  George,  coming  forward,  with  Magdalen  on  his  arm. 
"I  say,  don't  eat  Phil  alive,  and  spare  a  few  of  your  cm- 
braces,  if  possible,  for  other  acquaintances." 

Miss  Winters  flung  herself,  in  a  second  outburst,  into 
the  arms  of  Magdalen.  For  the  speaker,  he  was  unworthy 
of  notice.  Some  small  boys  near  grinned,  as  these  small 
sardonic  wretches  will,  while  Mr.  Howard  stood  scowling 
and  forgotten  in  the  background. 

"  I  thought  I  should  have  Ihe  trouble  of  courting  her 
before  I  married  her,"  reflected  Philip  Barstone,  who  had 
taken  Fannie's  raptures  with  constitutional  calm.  "  But, 
dear,  unsophisticated  child  of  nature  !  I  have  only  to 
keep  quiet  and  she'll  do  it  herself." 

Magdalen  smiled  as  she  kissed  Fanny — smiled  in  spite 
of  herself.  And  that  happiest  of  little  heiresses  hurried 
them  toward  the  sleigh,  clinging  to  her  beloved  Phil's 
arm. 

"You  can  drive,  George — I  have  ten  thousand  things 
to  say  to  Phil,"  said  ^[iss  Winters,  skipping  nimbly  into 
the  back  seat  and  making  place  for  Phil  beside  her.  "  And 
to  think  I  never  thouglit  yon  would  come.  Oh,  Phil  !  how 
nice  it  is  of  you  to  come  home." 

Doctor  Phil  assented,  com})lacently.  It  w:us  very  nice 
of  him,  but  then  he  was  a  nice  sort  of  person  altogether. 


176  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

George  took  the  reins,  and  away  they  flew  through  the 
starlit  night, 

"  How  dear  to  my  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood/* 
drawled  Doctor  Philip,  "  when  fond  recollections — what's 
the  rest,  Fanny  ?  Poetry's  rather  in  your  line,  isn't  it  ! 
Wonld  you  object  to  my  smoking  a  mild  cigar  ?" 

Object  !  Not  she,  indeed  !  If  this  sallow  young  man 
had  required  her  to  smoke  a  mild  cigar  herself,  she  might 
have  made  faces  over  it,  but  she  would  have  done  it  or 
died.     Object,  not  at  all  ! 

"  Ah,  no  !  I  dare  say  you  wouldn't,"  Philip  replied, 
"  but  Mrs.  Barstone  is  in  the  front  seat,  and  she  might. 
Do  you  know.  Fan,  she  has  the  bad  taste  not  to  like  yours 
truly  ?  " 

"  Not  like  you  !     Not  like  you,  Phil  !  " 

Fanny  laughed  in  utter  incredulity.  Did  that  monster, 
in  the  shape  of  woman,  really  exist  who  could  dislike  this 
pale-faced  demi-god  by  her  side  ? 

"  If  she  has  told  you  that,  Phil,  she  does  not  mean  it. 
I  always  said  to  her,  if  she  had  seen  you  she  would  not 
marry  George." 

"  My  dear  little  complimentary  Fanny  !  Miss  Magdalen 
Wayne  might  have  lived  and  died  a  maiden,  to  the  end  of 
the  chapter,  for  me.  No,  Miss  AVinters,  there's  another 
pretty  little  girl  whom  I  like,  and  whom  I  think  likes  me, 
and  I  don't  want  to  break  lier  heart.  Your  tall,  flashing- 
eyed,  majestic  Juuos  may  suit  some  men,  but  not  your 
humble  servant.  Give  me,"  said  Doctor  Philip,  look- 
ing lazily  at  his  breathless  little  companion,  ''  something 
plump  and  petite,  '  a  creature  not  too  bright  and  good,  for 
human  nature's  daily  food.'  There's  more  poetry  for  you, 
Fanny.  By  Jove  !  I  didn't  think  there  was  so  much  in 
me.  It  must  be  this  nice  moonlight  and  your  insijiring 
presence  that  does  it.  I  always  think  you  have  about  the 
chastest  article,  as  the  dry  goods  gentlemen  praise  it,  in 
the  way  of  moonlight  here  that  I  ever  saw." 

"  Oh,  Phil  !  "  Fanny  cried.  "  And  you  really  are — 
there  really  is — I  mean  there  is  some  one  you — oh,  Phil ! 
there  is  some  one  up  in  New  York,  after  all  ?  " 

*'  Several  some  ones,  my  dear  young  lady.  Will  you 
pardon  the  dullness  of  my  intellect  if  I  tell  you  I  really 
don't  quite  comprehend  your  highly  intelligible  remark  ?  " 

*'  I  mean,"  said  Fanny,  in  a  trembling  little  voice,  look- 


«  AND  YET  MY  DAYS  GO  ON,  GO  ON."     177 

ing  piteously  out  at  the  moonlight  and  the  snow  drifts  ; 
**I  mean,  of  course.  Doctor  liarstonc,  there  is  a — a  young 
person  in  New  York  to  whom — to  wliom  " — with  a  gulp — 
*'  you  are  engaged  ?  " 

"Engaged?"  repeated  Phil,  enjoying  poor  Fanny's 
misery,  as  those  male  monsters  will  ;  "  well — yes.  To  a 
young  person — no  ;  I'm  engaged  to  Doctor  James  Mas- 
torson,  of  that  ilk,  tt)  return  from  hei'e  in  two  months  ;  but 
you  can  hardly  call  him  a  '  young  person/ I  opine.  He 
was  seventy-five  last  birthday,  and  liis  frosty  pow,  like  the 
notorious  Mr.  John  Anderson's,  is  like  the  snow.  I'm 
engaged  to  him,  if  you  like,  but  perhaps  that  wasn't  what 
you  were  alluding  to  ?  " 

"Now,  Phil,"  cried  Miss  Winters,  indignantly,  her 
heart  beginning  to  beat  again,  poor  child,  "  how  can  you  ? 
Not  that  I  care,  of  course — oh,  no  !  You  may  marry  fifty 
young  ladies,  if  you  like,  and  I  shan't  object." 

"Shouldn't  you  ?  But  I'm  afraid  the  law  would,  my 
dear.  Fifty  young  ladies  !  What  a  delicious  idea  !  But 
then  one  would  have  to  emigrate  to  Utah.  And  besides 
that,  I  know  one  young  lady  who  will  satisfy  every  desire 
of  my  heart  just  at  present." 

"  Where  ?"  cried  the  tormented  Fanny;  "  that's  what 
I  meant  !     Who  is  she  ?" 

"The  dearest  little  girl  in  the  world,  Fanny." 
,    "  Little,  is  she  ?     Do  you  like  little  women,'  Phil  ?    She 
is  taller  than  I  am,  of  course  ?" 

"  By  no  means,  my  dear  ;  just  your  size." 

"  And  she  lives  in  New  York,  of  course  ?" 

"There's  'of  course,'  again!  No,  she  doesn't.  She 
lives  in  the  country." 

"  In  the  country  !  " — oh,  how  Fanny's  heart  was  plung- 
ing inside  her  velvet  basque! — "somewhere  oat  of  New 
York  ?  " 

"  Decidedly  out  of  New  York.  So  far  out,  that  it's 
in — "  a  dreadful  pause. 

"Oh,  Phil,  where  ?"  cried  Fanny,  half  wild  with  hope 
deferred. 

"Well,  then,  in — Connecticut." 

"  Phil !  " 

"  In  Millford.  Now,  Miss  Winters,  you're  such  a  clever 
guesser,  tell  me  who  she  is.  I'egin  witii  the  factory  girls, 
and  go  on  through  with  them  first." 


178  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

"  Oh,.  Phil,  tell  me  !     Oh,  Phil,  I'm  dying  to  know  ! " 

"  So  I  see.  I  wish  1  had  kept  count  of  the  '  oil,  Phils  !  * 
since  we  sat  down.  Tliey  would  have  been  interesting  to 
remember.  Well,  Fanny — "  his  arm  went  easily  aronnd 
her  waist,  and  his  blond  mustache  came  very  near  the 
round,  red  cheek  in  the  moonlight,  "she's  a  dear  little 
thing,  as  I  told  you  before,  and  Fm  very  fond  of  her — 
uncommonly  fond  of  her,  for  that  matter — and  her  name 
is — oh,  Fanny  !  Fanny  !  can't  you  guess  ?  " 

He  drew  her  toward  him  and  then — but  no  !  I  dare  say 
you  have  been  in  a  sleigh  yourself,  some  moonlight  night, 
with  somebody  beside  you,  and  you  know  better  than  I 
can  tell  you. 

There  was  another  ''Oh,  Phil  !"— almost  a  sob,  this 
time,  of  intense  ecstasy.  The  poor  child's  face  was  glo- 
rifled  in  the  ivory  light.  She  loved  him,  and  she  had  got 
liim  at  last.  And  the  married  pair  in  the  front  scat,  if 
you'll  believe  me,  neither  heard  nor  saw  nor  dreamed. 

"  Egad  !  "  thought  Phil  Barstone,  "  if  this  isn't  strik- 
ing while  the  iron's  hot,  with  a  vengeance  !  Did  I  doit, 
or  did  she  ?  1  didn't  think  there  v/as  so  much  energy  and 
determination  in  me.     What  the  deuce  will  Aunt  Lydia 


?" 


say  . 

Aunt  Lydia  would  not  be  best  pleased,  that  was  certain. 
She  was  very  fond  of  her  medical  nephew  ;  but  she  knew 
what  that  nephew's  past  life  had  been,  which  was  more 
than  Fanny  did,  and  would  have  hesitated  before  intrust- 
ing the  happiness  of  any  one  she  wished  well  to  his  keep- 
ing. Even  Fanny,  I  think,  fond  and  foolish  as  it  is  in  the 
nature  of  silly  eighteen  in  love  to  be,  would  have  drawn 
back  from  his  side  in  horror,  to-night,  had  she  known  all 
that  lay  in  that  dark  record  of  the  past. 

"  I  hope  Fan  won't  go  and  tell  I've  proposed,  as  soon  as 
we  get  to  the  house,"  he  thought.  "  It's  going  a  leetle  too 
fast,  even  for  me.  I  don't  think  she  can  construe  a  kiss 
into'  a  proposal  of  marriage,  and  I  haven't  said,  plump, 
*Miss  Winters,  will  you  be  my  wife?'  Why  the  deuce 
need  I  care,  though  ?  The  little  idiot  would  go  through 
fire  and  water,  if  I  told  her— would  jump  into  Willow  pond 
yonder,  if  I  said  '  Go ' — and  her  consent  is  all  that  is  nec- 
essary, I  take  it.  I  hope  tlie  Sacramento  uncle  hasn't  tied 
up  the  money  in  any  absurd  way  !     For  the  rest,  Fan's  of 


"AND  YET  MY  DAYS  GO  ON,  GO  ON."     179 

age,  and  would  run  awav  witli  me  to-morrow,  if  I  said 
*  Come  ! '" 

And  tlien  a  memory  of  the  past — a  memory  of  another 
girl,  as  young  and  far  fairer,  who  had  left  father  and. friends 
and  home,  to  follow  him,  when  he  said,  ''Come  !  "  ob- 
truded itself  sharply  and  suddenly.  He  looked  at  the 
white  face  of  George  Barstone's  wife,  gleaming  through 
the  pearly  night  as  if  cut  in  marble. 

"  What  the  devil  makes  me  think  of  her  at  this  time  ?  " 
he  thought,  with  an  inward  oath.  ''She  would  have  died 
just  the  same  if  I  had  left  her — died  because  I  left  her. 
Great  heaven,  if  I  could  only  forget  those  two  dead 
women  !  They  have  haunted  me  since  I  saw  the  pale  face 
of  this  girl  in  the  seat  there,  Jis  they  never  haunted  me 
before.  I'll  marry  Fanny,  and  go  to  Paris,  and  never  re- 
turn. Surely  one  may  find  the  waters  of  Lethe  in  that  far 
distant  city.  The  sooner  I  look  my  last  upon  Magdalen 
Barstone's  marble  face  the  better." 

They  reached  Golden  Willows — the  dear  old  homestead 
brightly  lighted  up,  and  sending  a  streaming  welcome  far 
over  the  snow. 

George  threw  open  the  front  door  and  led  Magdalen  in. 

"Welcome!"  he  said,  "to  Golden  Willows,  my  own 
dear  wife." 

Her  heart  swelled  ;  she  could  not  speak.  The  drawing- 
room  door  stood  wide  and  aunt  Lydia,  in  satin  gown  and 
lace  cap,  sat  there  in  her  great  chair,  a  happy  smile  of 
greeting  on  her  sweet,  calm  face. 

"  Welcome  home,  my  children,"  she  said.  "  What  I 
Phil,  too  !  My  dear  boy  !  what  a  surprise  I  My  dear  Mag- 
dalen !  my  dear  daughter  !  1  am  heartily  glad  to  get  you 
back,  Golden  Willows  is  not  itself  when  your  sunny  face  is 
absent." 

She  held  her  to  her  and  kissed  her  fondly.  Magdalen's 
face  dropped,  without  a  word,  on  her  breast. 

"Let  me  look  at  you,"  Aunt  Lydia  said.  "Let  me 
see  how  New  York  and  Washington  have  agreed  with  you. 
Why,  Magdalen  ! " 

For  the  first  time  she  had  full  view  of  the  girl's  face — 
that  fair  face,  so  sadly  changed  in  one  brief  month — so 
wan,  so  thin. 

"  Why,  my  darling,  what  is  this  ?  You  are  gone  to  a 
shadow.     It  is  not  possible  you  have  been  ill  ?  " 


180  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

**I11?  Oh,  no,  except  for  an  occasional  headache. 
Traveling  disagrees  with  me,  I  suppose.  Just  now  I  feel 
fagged  to  death," 

She  strove  to  speak  lightly — to  look  like  herself — before 
this  patient,  gentle  woman,  whose  life  had  been  so  full  of 
suffering.  But  Lydia  Barstone's  clear,  earnest  eyes  saw 
through  that  bootless  effort.  She  glanced  at  George.  Dark 
on  his  face  lay  the  shadow  of  trouble,  too. 

''So  soon!''  A-unt  Lydia  thought,  with  a  sigh — ''so 
soon  !  and  I  hoped — I  was  sure  they  would  have  been  so 
happy.  What  can  it  be  ?  Oh,  the  trail  of  the  serpent 
surely  overlies  all  that  is  best  on  earth  ! " 

"I  declare,  Magdalen,  yon  have  grown  thin,"  cried 
Fanny,  waking  out  of  the  egotism  of  her  own  great  bliss 
to  the  worn  change  in  her  governess'  face  ;  "  and  I'm  sure 
you  didn't  need  it.  If  it  had  been  me,  now  !  But  it's  al- 
ways the  way — everybody  can  get  thin  but  me.  And  that 
reminds  me — I'm  pretty  nearly  starved,  and  we  have 
oysters  and  cold  turkey,  and  Jellies  and  chocolate  for  tea. 
Come  up-stairs,  Magdalen,  and  let  us  take  off  our  things. 
I  don't  know  how  it  may  be  with  you,  but  I  never  was  so 
hungry  in  my  life." 

Miss  Winters  danced  away  up-stairs,  to  add  a  few  more 
adornments  to  an  already  florid  toilet,  in  honor  of  Phil's 
arrival. 

Magdalen  went  wearily  to  her  own  rooms.  How  pretty 
they  were  in  their  bright  new  furniture — cheerily  the  fire 
blazed.  How  cozy  and  homelike  and  pleasant  it  all  was. 
There  were  the  pictures  she  liked,  the  draperies  she  had 
fancied,  the  carpets  she  had  chosen,  the  little  soft  nests  of 
rocking  chairs,  the  tall  mirrors,  the  gleaming  statuettes. 
How  pretty  and  tasteful  it  all  was — how  happy  she  had 
thought  to  be.  And  now  !  She  turned  away  from  it,  sick 
at  heart.  What  did  the  loss  of  all  these  pleasant  and 
pretty  things  signify,  since  she  had  lost  the  husband  she 
loved  ? 

"  And  I  am  so  young  ! "  she  thought,  with  a  dreary  de- 
spair, "and  likely  to  live  so  long  !  A  month  ago  I  would 
have  thought  death  a  dreadful  thing,  but  how  much  worse 
than  a  thousand  deaths  is  such  trouble  as  this  !  " 

A  tidy,  smiling  housemaid  came  in  to  assist  her  unpack 
and  dress.  She  changed  her  traveling  costume  for  a  trail- 
ing evening  robe  of  bright  blue,  and  against  its  deep  tints 


"AND  YET  MY  DAYS  GO  ON,  GO  ON."     isl 

her  gold  hair  gleamed,  and  her  neck  and  arms  shone  like 
snow. 

Miss  Winters,  quite  gorgeous  in  inauve  silk,  with  the 
winding  train  so  dear  to  her  heart,  rosebuds  and  ribbons 
in  her  liair,  and  necklace  and  bracelets  and  ear-rings  of 
sparkling  stones,  tiasliing  splendidly  in  the  lamp- 
light. 

''  I  don't  suppose  they're  real,  you  know,  Magdalen," 
Fanny  said,  alluding  to  her  jewels,  "  because  I  got  them 
down  in  Millford,  and  tlie  whole  set  only  cost  thirty  dol- 
lars ;  but  they're  awful  pretty,  I  think,  and  glitter  lovely. 
Dear  me  !  how  pale  you  are  I  1  wisli  I  could  look  pale  and 
interesting  ;  but  I  can't.  I  suppose  it's  on  account  of  my 
appetite,  and  it's  of  no  use  drinking  vinegar  I  I've  tried 
it  and  it  only  makes  me  sick,  and  doesn't  do  one  particle 
of  good.  Don't  tell  Aunt  Lydia  ;  but  she  can't  under- 
stand why  the  vinegar  cruets  are  always  empty.  Do 
let's  hurry  down  to  supper." 

The  cosy  dining-room  of  Golden  Willows  looked  a  very 
pleasant  and  cheerful  apartment,  its  bright  anthracite  fire, 
its  niollnw  lamplight,  flooding  the  snowily-draped  table, 
all  a-sparkle  with  old  silver  and  fragile  china,  and  groan- 
ing, if  tables  ever  do  groan,  with  fragrant  creature  com- 
forts. 

Aunt  Lydia  presided  and  Fanny  chatted  about  her  won- 
derful good  fortune,  and  Phil  came  out  of  his  constitu- 
tional indolence  and  talked  as  he  could  talk  when  he 
chose.  A  stranger  passing  without  and  glancing  in  at 
that  picture  might  have  thought,  "  Wliat  a  happy  family 
party  ! "  And  yet  black  care  stood  grimly  behind  more 
than  one  chair  back,  and  a  skeleton  grinned  under  the 
festal  roses.  Perhaps,  of  the  five  persons  there  gathered, 
Fanny  Winters  was  the  only  one  really  happy. 

Magdalen  went  to  the  piano,  after  sujjper,  at  Aunt 
Lydia's  request,  and  her  devoted  husband  sat  near  and 
watched — as  he  never  wearied  of  watching — that  pale, 
lovely  face,  and  drank  in  the  music  those  slender  fingers 
evoked.  It  was  melancholy  music,  too,  in  which  the  pas- 
sionate pain  of  the  girl's  heart  breathed. 

She  sang  the  plaintive  little  ballad  Fanny  had  sung  on 
her  wedding  eve,  a  weird  pathos  in  the  faintly  sighing 
words  : 


182  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

I  note  the  flow  of  the  weary  years, 

Like  the  flow  of  this  flowing  river  ; 
But  dead  in  my  heart  are  its  hopes  and  fears 

Forever  and  forever. 
For  never  a  light  in  the  distance  gleams 

No  eye  looks  out  for  the  rover. 
Oh,  sweet  be  your  sleep,  love — sweet  he  your  dreams — > 

Under  the  blossoming  clover 
The  sweet-scented,  bee-haunted  clover  ! 

Her  voice  died  away  almost  like  a  sob. 

The  pair  in  the  distant  corner  paused  in  their  billing 
and  cooing,  and  Aunt  Lydia  looked  at  the  singer  in  pale 
anxiety. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "you  have  chosen  a  mournful 
song,  and  your  singing  is  sadder  than  weeping.  I  think 
Fanny  will  have  to  come  and  give  us  one  of  her  rattling 
polkas  to  dispel  our  melancholy." 

"  I  am  very  comfortable  where  I  am,  thank  you.  Aunt 
Lydia,"  Fanny  retorted,  nestling  a  little  more  comfortably 
beside  Phil,  "and  I  don't  feel  in  the  least  melancholy. 
Play  us  some  German  waltzes,  Magdalen,  and  don't  be  so 
dreadfully  dismal,  if  the  honeymoon  is  over." 

The  heiress  kept  her  idol  by  her  side  during  the  whole 
of  the  evening  and  did  her  best,  in  feminine  fashion,  to 
wring  a  proposal  out  of  him. 

' '  He  as  good  as  told  me  he  was  in  love  with  me,  in  the 
sleigh,"  she  thought,  "but  still  he  didn't  say  plump, 
'  Fanny,  will  you  marry  me  ? '  I  wish  he  would — I'm 
sure  I  don't  see  why  he  don't.  It  isn't  for  want  of 
encouragement,  goodness  knows  ! " 

Which  it  certainly  was  not  ;  but  all  the  young  lady's 
hints  and  ingenuity  could  not  induce  Doctor  Barstone  to 
come  to  the  point  that  first  evening. 

"  I  see  your  drift  perfectly  well,  my  dear,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "  but  it  won't  do.  "  If  there's  to  be  a  proposal 
to-night,  you  must  make  it  yourself.  Aunt  Lydia  and 
George  will  know  well  enough,  no  matter  when  it  comes, 
that  it's  your  sixty  thousand  dollars  I'm  marrying  ;  still, 
let's  go  in  for  decent  delay  if  we  can.  There's  no  especial 
need  for  hurry — I'm  not  likely  to  lose  you,  I  fancy.  You 
shall  wait  a  couple  of  weeks  at  least." 

Miss  Winters  went  to  her  room  disappointed  that  night. 

The  two  young  men  lingered  after  the  ladies  had  left 
them  to  smoke  a  cigar  under  the  frosty  stars. 


"AND  YET  MY  DAYS  GO  ON,  GO  ON."     183 

"  What  the  deuce  is  the  matter  with  your  wife,  George?  " 
the  doctor  said,  abruptly  ;  "  that  pale,  melancholy  face — 
those  mournful  son<;s  !  She  has  some  trouble  on  her  mind 
and  she'll  do  herst-H"  mischief  brood ini,^  over  it.  1  suppose 
it's  that  unpleasant  business  of  Maurice  Langley  ?  " 

*'  I  suppose  it  is,  hang  him  I"  tJeorge  answered,  with  a 
groan.  "  I  ought  to  be  the  happiest  and  I'm  tlie  most 
miserable  beggar  alive  I  I  believe  tliat  .lohnstone  is  at  the 
oottoni  of  it,  too.  She  had  a  note  from  him  the  day  we 
left  Washington." 

*'  Ah,  she  had  ?     You  didn't  see  it,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"No.  She  refused  in  New  York  to  show  me  his  letters, 
and  I  could  not  ask  again." 

"  It's  a  bad  business,  old  boy,"  Phil  said,  "when  awife 
receives  letters  froni  other  men,  and  won't  show  them  to 
her  husband.  It's  a  blue  lookout  for  the  future  happiness 
of  the  pair.  Supposing  the  trouble  is  concerning  this  fel- 
low Langley,  why  sliould  .she  not  take  you  into  her  confi- 
dence as  slie  voluntarily  did  before  you  were  married  ? 
How  have  you  forfeited  lier  trust  in  you  ?" 

"How,  indeed?  Heaven  knows!  These  women  are 
inscrutable,  Phil.  Before  we  were  married  ^lagdalen 
Wayne  .seemed  as  open  as  the  day — frank,  truthful,  trust- 
ing, confiding — everything  woman  should  be.  And  now 
— and  now  a  gulf  yawns  between  us  that  I  cannot  cross. 
I  have  won  her  only  to  lose  her.  She  is  up  yonder,  but 
she  might  as  well  be  a  thousand  miles  away — she  could  not 
be  further.  I  tell  you,  Phil,  there  are  times  when  this 
mystery  and  secrecy  nearly  drive  me  mad  !  " 

"  It  will  drive  her  mad,  if  she  doesn't  take  care," 
Doctor  Barstone  answered,  coolly;  "  let  her  brood  per- 
petually on  this  subject — let  her  nurse  her  morbid  nielan- 
clioly — her  Q,uixoti'c  sclieme  of  vengeajice— and  she'll 
bring  up  in  Bedlam  before  she  knows  it.  1  don't  want  to 
alarm  you  needlessly,  my  dear  George,  but  I  tell  you  your 
wife's  mind  is  in  a  bad  way." 

George  removed  his  cigar  and  looked  at  the  speaker  in 
horror. 

"  It's  quite  true,"  the  jjliysician  said,  nodding  gravely  : 
"  she'll  become  a  monomaniac,  as  sure  as  we  both  stand 
here,  if  she  keeps  on  like  this.  She'll  fancy,  by  and  by, 
every  strange  man  she  meets  is  Maurice  Langley.  I 
ehoulda't  in"  the  least  wonder  if  she  accused  yon  or  me  one 


184  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

of  these  days.  Take  care  of  your  wife,  George — that's 
my  advice  to  you.  Let's  go  in— the  night's  a  nipper. 
And,  sound  sleeper  as  you  are,  I  don't  think  you'll  sleep 
over  above  soundly  to-night,"  he  added,  mentally,  with  a 
grim  sort  of  satisfaction  as,  night  lamp  in  hand,  he 
sought  his  old  room.  "  If  she  only  keeps  quiet  funtil  I 
have  married  Fanny  and  left  the  country,  I  shall  be  eter- 
nally obliged  to  her.  I  hate  a  scene  as  I  hate— and,  by 
George  !  what  a  scene  there  would  be  if  the  truth  ever 
came  out !  I'll  propose  to  Fanny,  in  due  form,  in  a 
week,  and  marry  her,  and  sail  for  Europe  before  the  end 
of  March.     She'd  marry  me  to-morrow,  if  I  asked  her." 

The  week  of  probation  went  by  as  all  weeks  go,  long  or 
short  ;  and  perhaps,  under  his  placid  exterior.  Doctor 
Philip  was  as  impatient  as  Miss  Winters  herself  to  bring 
the  courtship  to  a  head.  Fanny  chafed  and  lost  her  temper 
and  pouted  and  sulked  and  made  up  again  ;  but  through 
it  all  Philip  Barstone  smoked  serenely  and  walked  with  her 
by  moonlight  alone,  and  drove  her  about  and  listened  to 
her  songs  and  chatter,  and  was  faithful  to  his  word.  He 
did  not  propose  until  the  time  he  had  appointed,  and, 
perhaps,  Fanny  never  counted  a  longer  week  than  that 
week  of  waiting,  in  all  her  future  life. 

But  the  days  were  long  and  the  impatience  of  another 
waiter  more  intense  than  her  own.  It  was  a  period  of 
almost  unendurable  suspense  to  Magdalen.  Why  did  not 
WilHe  write  ?  Why  did  he  not  come  ?  How  could  he 
leave  her,  with  her  terrible  secret,  so  long  ?  She  longed 
for  the  end  to  come — the  bitter  end — anything  was  better 
than  the  life  she  led  now.     That  end  came  very  soon. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

THE  LULL  BEFOKE  THE  STORM. 

Philip  Barstoke  tad  been  eight  days  at  Golden  Wil- 
lows and  Philip  Barstone  had  not  proposed.  I  think  Miss 
Winters  had  some  right  to  be  aggrieved.  Miss  Winters 
was  aggrieved— annoyed — indignant.  When  a  gentleman 
puts  his  arm  around  your  waist  in  a  sleigh  the  first 
time  he  meets  you  and  kisses  you  and  says,  "  Oh,  Fanny! 
Fanny  !  Fanny  !  "  in  that  tone — well,  he  ought  to  have 


THE  LULL  BEFORE  THE  STORM.    185 

intentions,  you  know.  Hut  the  long  days  went  by— ter- 
ribly long  to  two  young  hulio.s  in  that  house — :in(l  the  long 
evenings  passed  and  still  that  obstiinite  young  doctor  from 
New  York  had  not  said,  "  Miss  Winters,  will  yon  do  me 
the  lionor  to  become  my  wife  'i  " 

lie  escorted  her,  with  the  politeness  of  a  Chesterfield, 
to  and  from  Millford,  and  made  a  martyr  of  himself  by 
doing  80  ;  for,  being  an  indolent  young  man,  lie  hated 
walking,  while  a  saunter  of  six  miles  or  so  was  nothing  to 
his  energetic  little  companion. 

He  drove  her  about  tlie  country  in  that  dear  little  shell- 
shaped  sleigh  ;  he  stood  by  the  piano  when  she  ])layed  and 
sang,  and  victimized  himself  again,  for  he  was  fastidious 
and  hypercritical  in  musical  matters,  and  Fanny's  dis- 
cordant chords  set  liis  nerves  on  edge  fifty  times  a  day. 

He  lay  at  full  length  upon  the  sofas,  on  cold,  blustering 
days,  and  read  her  Tennyson  and  Owen  Meredith  ;  liepaid 
her  compliments  ;  he  gave  her  his  picture  ;  he  improved 
her  waltzing  ;  he  did  everything,  in  fact,  but  what  f^he 
wanted  him  to  do — come  to  the  point. 

Life  had  gone  back  very  much  to  its  old  routine  at 
Golden  Willows.  George  was  immersed  in  business  which 
had  accumnlated  during  his  absence,  and  spent  l)is  days, 
fi'om  early  morning,  and  sometimes  late  into  the  night,  at 
Millford.  He  bore  his  trouble  with  a  brave  patience — it 
was  a  case  in  which  he  could  do  nothing  but  wait. 

Time  might  dispel  the  mysterious  cloud  that  had  come 
between  him  and  the  wife  he  loved.  He  would  give  her 
time,  not  harass  her  with  questions  ;  in  the  peace  and 
calm  of  their  pleasant  home  this  abnormal  state  of  things 
v.'ould  not  last.  He  was  very  tender  and  gentle  and  lov- 
ing— more  than  he  had  been  even  in  the  sunny  days  of  his 
wooing — and  there  was  a  yearning,  wistful  light  in  the 
eyes  that  sought  hers  every  evening  upon  his  return.  He 
hoped  for  some  sudden  change — some  sudden  transition 
to  her  old  self — but  what  he  looked  for  did  not  come. 
Hd  found  her,  evening  after  evening,  as  he  had  left  her 
in  the  morning — very  quiet,  very  pale — witii  a  sort  of  hag- 
gard weariness  in  the  large  gray  eyes. 

"  I  will  hear  from  Willie  to-day,"  was  Magdalen's  first 
waking  thought  each  morning. 

But  the  days  jjassed,  as  davs  of  trouble  and  heart- 
break do,  somehow,  and  she  hait  not  heard. 


186  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

'' I  will  have  a  letter  to-morrow/' was  her  reflection 
each  night. 

Oh,  those  dreary,  lonely  nights  when  she  lay  stark  awake 
■ — tliinking — thinking — until  madness  would  have  been  a 
relief  !  No  wonder  she  awoke  iiaggard  and  hollow-eyed 
each  morning. 

The  girlish  bloom  and  brightness  had  all  faded — the  old 
glad  sparkle  had  left  the  dark  eyes — tlie  golden  light  had 
faded  from  the  yellow  hair.  Stately  and  fair  she  still  was  ; 
but  the  face  was  like  a  face  carved  in  marble,  and  the 
faint  smile  that  came  and  went  at  rare  intervals  was  cold 
as  the  pallid  starlight  glittering  on  snow. 

*' Why  does  he  not  write — why  does  he  not  come?" 
she  cried  out,  inwardly,  in  sndden  wild  paroxysms  of  pain  ; 
*'  another  week  of  this  horrible  waiting  will  kill 
me  ; " 

You  see,  if  you  or  I,  my  brother,  were  going  to  be 
hanged,  we  would  like  the  dr.y  to  dawn,  and  the  knot  fixed 
under  our  left  ear,  and  the  cap  pulled  down,  and  the 
signal  given,  and  the  unpleasant  little  operation  over  as 
soon  as  might  be.  To  have  died  there,  loving  and  beloved, 
with  George  kneeling  in  white  despair  by  her  bedside, 
would  have  been  bliss  in  comparison  with  what  must 
come  soon  ;  but  it  must  come,  and  the  sooner  the  fatal 
hour  was  over  the  better. 

The  family  at  Golden  Willows  watched  the  new-make 
bride  and  saw,  clearly  enough,  she  was  in  some  great 
trouble.  Aunt  Lydia  looked  at  the  wan  young  face  and 
sad,  sad  eyes  in  wistful  wonder  and  great  sorrow. 

"  What  can  it  be  ?  "  she  thought.  "  Is  it  George's 
fault  ?  Surely  no — George  is  all  mortal  man  can  be — 
faithful,  loving,  gentle.  It  is  that  old  trouble  renewed 
again — that  foolish  vow,  which  I  hoped  she  would  forget  ! 
It  is  no  groundless,  girlish  sentimentality,  whatever  it  may 
be,  and   George  is  fretting  himself  to  a  shadow." 

She  spoke  to  the  young  man  one  evening.  He  had  come 
into  her  room  upon  his  return,  as  he  always  did,  to  ask 
how  she  was,  and  as  he  leaned,  tired  and  despondent, 
against  the  mantel,  staring  gloomily  into  the  fire,  Aunt 
Lydia's  heart  ached  for  her  boy. 

"  George,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
about  Magdalen.  What  is  this  that  has  come  between  you 
— that  has  changed  her  so  ?     She  left  here  a  happy,  bloom- 


THE  LULL  BEFORE  THE  STORM.  187 

ing  bride — she  comes  back  a  pale,  worn,  wretched  woman. 
What  is  this  ?" 

George  groaned.  There  were  times  wlien  his  trouble 
seemed  almosL  more  than  he  could  bear. 

"  Heaven  knows — I  don't  I  I  would  give  half  the  years 
I  have  to  live  to  comprehend  the  mystery — to  win  back 
my  wife's  love  ! " 

"  You  have  not  lost  that  ?  " 

*'  I  have  lost  that — she  as  good  as  told  me  so  in  New 
York.  There  are  times  when  1  think  she  hates  me — and 
I — I  would  die  for  her  !  " 

He  stopped  suddenly.  I  think,  in  the  flickering  fire- 
light, the  water  gleamed  in  his  eyes. 

"  My  George  !  "  my  boy  !  "  Aunt  Lydia  said,  with  all  a 
motiier's  yearning  love  in  her  face.  ''It  is  hard  on  you, 
and  yet  I  know  ^Lagdalcn  loves  you  as  dearly  as  ever.  We 
women  can  read  one  another's  hearts.  She  loves  you  as 
dearly  as  she  did  the  day  she  married  you  ;  but  I  be- 
lieve she  must  think  you  have  wronged  her  in  some  way. 
I  wish  you  would  tpll  me  how  and  when  this  change  oc- 
curred— I  might  see  througli  it  more  clearly." 

George  told  her.  There  was  not  much  to  tell.  They 
had  returned  from  Mrs.  ^Moreland's  i)arty  as  happy  and 
united  a  husband  and  wife  as  New  York  held.  He  had 
gone  to  sleep  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  and  when  he  awoke, 
late  in  the  afternoon,  the  change  that  puzzled  and  mys- 
tified them  all  was  there.  AVhat  had  happened  in  the 
interval  he  could  not  tell  ;  but  she  had  never  been  like 
herself  since. 

"  How  strange,"  Miss  Barstone  said,  thoughtfully, 
"  very  strange  !  Magdalen  is  not  secretive  naturally — the 
last,  i  believe,  who  would  make  an  unnecessary  mystery. 
Has  she  given  you  no  inkling  whatever  of  the  truth  ?  " 

"  Well — yes.  Not  from  her,  however,  did  the  inkling 
come  ;  you  remember,  perhaps,  that  rash  and  melodra- 
matic vow  of  vengeance  against  the  man  who  wronged 
her  sister — Maurice  Langley  ?  In  some  way  or  other  I 
believe  she  coiniects  me  with  that  wretched  business.  I 
believe  she  has  found  him  or  thinks  she  has." 

"  Connects  you  with  that  most  miserable  alTaii-  ?  My 
dear  George  !  " 

"  I  don't  know — I  think  so — how  else  account  for  tiiis 
sullen  silence  and  estrangement  ?     And  there  is  a  fellow 


188  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

in  New  York — a  distant  relative,  she  told  me,  named  John- 

gtone — who  writes  to  her  and  whom  she  met  one  evening, 
on  the  street.  Phil  saw  them  together.  Whoever  this 
Johnstone  may  be,  I  believe  he  is  the  cause  of  all  this 
trouble." 

"  Have  you  seen  his  letters  ?" 

"No  ;  she  refused  to  show  them.  That  is  the  worst  of 
it.  I  would  not  betray  my  wife  even  to  you,  Aunt  Lydia, 
but  Phil  knows,  and — and  1  ought  to  have  no  secrets  from 
you,  who  have  been  more  to  me  than  a  mother.  I  wish 
you  would  speak  to  her — she  always  loved  you,  and  to  you 
she  seems  still  unchanged.  Who  knows  ?  She  is  impul- 
sive— in  one  of  those  impulsive  moods  she  may  tell  you 
what  all  this  wretched  mystery,  that  is  driving  me  half 
mad,  means.  It  would  be  easier,  I  think,  to  lose  my  dar- 
ling by  death— mine  still,  as  on  my  wedding  day— than 
to  fose  her  in  life  like  this  !  " 

Again  silence  fell.  The  speaker's  voice  was  husky  and 
not  to  be  trusted  too  far.  Aunt  Lydia's  heart  yearned 
over  her  boy  ;  she  could  have  taken  him  in  her  arms,  as 
in  his  childhood,  and  comforted  him  in  his  grief.  But 
demonstration  was  not  in  her  way— her  voice  was  very 
quiet  when  she  spoke. 

"  I  will  speak  to  her,  George.  I  believe  she  will  tell 
me.     Keep  up  heart— trust  in  God— all  will  yet  be  well." 

Aunt  and  nephew  parted.  George  descended,  feeUng  a 
little  more  happy  after  this  confidential  talk.  Hope  came 
easily  to  sanguine  George,  and  he  knew  very  little  medium 
between  the  sunlit  summit  of  hope  and  the  black  depths 
of  despair.  He  was  on  the  top  of  one,  or  the  bottom  of 
the  other,  at  a  moment's  notice. 

Magdalen  sat  at  the  piano,  playing  softly,  between  the 
lights,  slow,  melancholy  music  of  Mozart's.  The  February 
wmd  whistled  in  shrill  gusts  around  the  gables,  the  trees 
writhed  against  the  low,  leaden  sky. 

The  red  coal  fire  lit  up  the  room  with  a  dull,  lurid  glow, 
now  leaving  the  figure  at  the  piano  in  darkness,  now  light- 
ing it  up  with  a  sudden  fiery  leap.  By  the  window,  talk- 
ing softly,  sat  Miss  Winters  and  Doctor  Barstone— the 
young  lady  splendid  of  attire,  as  usual,  and  ceaseless  of 
tongue. 

"  Here  comes  our  Darby,  to  hang  devotedly  over  the 
ihair  of  his  Joan.     Do  you  know,  Fanny,  it  strikes  me 


THE  LULL  BEFORE  THE  STORM.    18« 

Joan  is  in  the  sulks,  and  has  been  ever  since  I  knew  lier  ? 
Perhaps  it's  her  normal  state,  however  :  or  do  you  think 
some  old  tlainc  of  (feorge's  turned  up  in  New  York  and 
that  she's  jealous  ?  George  w.'is  on  the  verge  of  madness 
about  at  least  eight  different  young  ladies  in  that  city, 
some  years  ago." 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,  "  Fanny  responded.  "Sho 
seems  dreadfully  unhappy  about  something,  and  she  keeps 
away  from  George  as  much  as  possible,  and  looks  at  him 
sometimes  in  the  strangest  way.  I  should  like  to  ask  her 
what's  the  matter  ;  but,  somehow,  I  can't.  She  isn't  the 
sort  of  person  one  can  say  everything  one  likes  to.  She 
can  keep  one  off  when  she  chooses.  And  she  used  to  be 
very  fond  of  George,  too,  though  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  how 
she  could  like  any  one  who  laughs  so  loud  and  never  reads 
anything  but  stupid  law  books,  and  smokes  nasty  black 
pipes,  and  has  large  hands  and  feet  !  I  don't  think  it  can 
be  his  fault,  because  it's  quite  ridiculous  the  way  he  goes 
on  about  her.  I  wish  anybody  would  be  half  as  fond  of 
me  ! "  said  the  heiress  of  sixty  thousand  dollars,  with  a 
deep  sigh.  "  I  should  not  treat  them  in  the  scornful 
manner  she  treats  him  !  But  nobody  ever  will.  I'm  not 
tall  and  beautiful,  like  Mrs.  George  iBarstone,  and  nobody 
cares  for  little  dnmpy  people,  with  white  eyelashes  and 
freckles,  let  them  be  ever  so  amiable.  If  I  were  married 
I  wouldn't  behave  toward  my  husband  as  Magdalen  be- 
haves to  hers  ! " 

**  No,  my  dear ;  I  don't  think  yon  would.  She  has 
never  dropped  yon  a  hint,  then,  what  all  this  mysterious 
gloom  means  ?  " 

"Not  a  word,  though  I've  given  her  hints  enough  on 
the  subject,  goodness  knows  I  It's  all  no  u»e,  however. 
She  never  pays  the  least  attention.  But,  of  course,  that's 
to  be  expected.     Who  ever  pays  any  attention  to  Fanny  ?  " 

**My  dear  child,  I  do!  I  pay  you  the  most  marked 
attention.     What  would  you  have  ?'" 

Miss  Winters  looked  up  eagerly,  expectant.  Slie  knew 
very  well  what  she  would  have. 

'•  You  don't  care  for  me,  Pbil — you  know  you  don't  ! 
You  said  you  did  the  night  you  came,  and  I — I  believed 
you,  you  know,  because  I  always  was  a  goose.  If  I  was 
tall  and  had  a  waist  like  a  wasp  and  yellow  hair  and  a  palo 
face,  you  might   admire    me.     Magdalen    has,    and    you 


190  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

admire  her.  I'm  sure  you're  always  looking  at  her  when 
she  doesn't  see  you,  and  listening  when  she  talks  and  sings, 
and  speaking  to  her  when  she'll  speak  to  you  (which  isn't 
often).  1  do  believe,  Phil  Barstone,  you're  half  in  love 
with  your  cousin's  wife  !" 

Miss  Winters'  eyes  flashed  through  the  twilight.  This 
little  thorn  had  been  rankling  in  her  breast  for  the  past 
four  days,  and  she  felt  considerably  better  now  that  she 
had  it  out. 

"  My  dear  little  Fanny,"  Phil  said,  rather  surprised  at 
the  young  lady's  sharpsightedness,  '•  and  you're  a  victim 
to  the  green-eyed  monster  !  My  dear,  you  do  me  too  much 
honor  ;  but  I  assure  you,  on  the  word  of  a  gentleman  and 
a  moral  young  physician,  I  am  not  in  love  with  George's 
wife  or  any  other  man's  wife.  And  I  told  you  before  I 
didn't  affect  tall  women  nor  pale  yellow  hair,  nor  big, 
gray,  solemn  eyes.  Lord  Byron  might  hate  dumpy  women 
— he  did,  you  remember — but  nobody  pays  any  attention 
to  him  or  his  sayings  nowadays.  And  it's  of  no  use  saying 
nobody  cares  for  you,  because  I  care  for  you  very  much  — 
so  much,  my  dear  little  darling  Fanny  " — here  DoctorPhilip 
possessed  himself  of  one  chubby  palm — "  that  life  without 
you  will  be  a  waste  and  howling  wilderness.  Fanny,  I 
idolize  you  !  Might  I — may  I — dare  I  ask  you  to  be  my 
wife?" 

At  last — at  last  it  had  come  !  Fanny  barely  repressed  a 
scream  of  delight  ;  but  George  and  Magdalen  were  over 
there,  and  she  only  gave  one  gasp — one  gasp  of  pure  joy — 
and  said  : 

"Oh,  Phil  !" 

"  Yes  ;  I  think  I  have  heard  you  make  that  remark 
before.  I  adore  you,  Fanny  !  I  worship  you — upon  my 
word  and  honor,  I  do  !     Say — oh  say,  dearest,  you  will  be 


mme 


V" 


The  last  sentence  sounded  rather  Lord  Mortimerish. 
Phil  had  a  vague  idea  that  he  had  read  it  somewhere. 

Fanny  gave  another  gasp,  and  would  have  plumped  into 
his  arms,  but  Phil  caught  her  other  pudgy  palm  and  held 
her  off. 

''  No,  don't,  Fan  ;  they'll  see  you,  and  we're  not  making 
love  on  the  stage,  where  spectators  are  allowed.  Just  say, 
*ril  marry  you  Phil/  and  make  my  earthly  happiness 
complete. 


THE  LULL  BEFORE  THE  STORM.        191 

"  Oh,  Phil  !  I  love  you  Avith  all  my  heart !  I've  loved 
you — oh,  this  ever  so  long  !  And,  do  you  know,  I  thought 
you  didn't  care  for  nie.  1  thought  you  wouM  marry  some 
beautiful  young  lady  up  in  New  York  and  then  I  should 
have  died— yes,  Pliil,  I  may  be  fleshy,  butflesliy  people  die 
sometimes — and  I  know  I  sliould  have  died  of  a  Ijroken 
heart.  And  now  I'm  so  glad — ol),  so  glad — and  I'll  never 
snub  you,  as  Magdalen  snubs  (leorge  ;  and  I'm  awfully 
thankful  I've  got  sixty  thousand  dollars.  If  I  had  twice 
sixty  you  should  have  it,  every  cent.  And  if  you  hadn't 
asked  me,  I  would  have  lived  and  died  an  old  maid  ;  and 
vou  know,  Phil,  it's  not  uice  to  be  an  old  maid,  if  one  can 
help  oneself,  and  I've  had  lots  of  beaux  ever  since  I've 
had  my  legacy — real  nice  fellows,  too,  down  in  Mill  ford — 
and  I  needn't  be  an  old  maid,  if  I  liked.  But  I  wouldn't 
listen  to  them  for  a  minute,  because  I  loved  you.  And 
we'll  f^o  away,  won't  wo,  Phil  ? — and  travel  everywhere, 
and  enjoy  ourselves,  and  oh,  Phil  !  Phil  !  I'm  just  the 
happiest  girl  alive  !  " 

And  here  Miss  Winters  was  growing  hysterical,  and 
there  is  no  telling  how  the  scene  might  have  ended,  but 
for  the  timely  entrance  of  a  housemaid  with  lamps. 

Phil  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief. 

"Thank  God!  "he  said,  inwardly.  "I  thought  she 
was  going  to  fall  into  my  arms  on  the  spot.  If  I  don't 
take  a  little  of  this  gushing  out  of  you  when  we're  married, 
my  name's  not  Barstonc." 

There  was  a  loud  knock  at  the  house  door.  It  was  a 
relief  to  escape  from  Fanny,  and  Doctor  Philip  sprang  up 
and  answered  the  summons. 

The  postman  from  Millford  stood  before  him,  with  a 
letter  in  liis  hand. 

"  Mrs.  Magdalen  Barstone,"  he  said,  and  gave  the  letter 
and  departed. 

The  young  doctor  took  it  into  the  drawing-room.  It 
was  addressed  in  a  masculine  hand,  with  a  big,  con- 
spicuous buff  envelope. 

"  For  you,  Mrs.  Barstone,"  he  said,  handing  it  to  her, 
at  the  piano,  superscription  uppermost. 

George  still  stood  boliind  her  chair.  lie  saw  that  well- 
known  writing,  ;ind  his  heart  turned  sick  within  him. 

"  From  Johnstone  again,"  he  thought.  *'  Will  these 
letters  never  cease  ?  '* 


193  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

Magdalen  turned  very  white  as  she  took  the  letter. 

"  Thanks  ! "  she  said,  hurriedly,  as  she  arose,  and  at 
once  left  the  room. 

There  was  an  awkward  little  pause.  Even  Fanny,  in 
the  blind  egotism  of  her  own  great  joy,  saw  that  some- 
thing very  serious  was  wrong.  The  two  cousins  looked  at 
each  other,  and  both  knew  and  understood  as  well  t»6 
though  they  had  spoken. 

And  up-stairs  in  her  chamber  George's  wife  had  torn 
open  her  letter  and  read,  by  the  flickering  firelight,  down 
upon  her  knees  j 

"MiLLFORD,  Feb.  12. 
*'Dear  Magdalen  : — 

"  I  arrived  this  afternoon.  I  am  stopping  at  Freeman's 
boarding  house,  33  River  Street.  I  must  see  you  to- 
morrow, without  fail.  It  is  time  you  knew  tlie  worst.  You 
shall  know  it  when  next  we  meet  :  and  prepare  yourself 
for  something  a  great  deal  more  dreadful  than  anything 
you  know  at  present.  Drop  a  line  in  the  Millford  post- 
offce,  early  to-morrow,  telling  me  when  and  where  to 
meet  you.  I'll  hang  about  the  office  all  day.  Don't 
fail.  Willie." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  OLD  MILL  BY  THE  RIVER. 

Miss  Barstone  sat  alone  in  her  chamber,  musing  before 
the  fire,  ere  she  went  to  bed  for  the  night.  It  was  after 
ten — long  past  her  usual  time — but  her  conversation  with 
George  had  banished  all  present  desire  for  sleep.  She 
sat  in  her  great  chair  before  the  grate,  musing,  with  a 
troubled  face,  as  to  how  she  should  broach  the  subject  to 
Magdalen  ;  for  Magdalen  was  proud  and  high-spirited, 
she  knew,  gentle  as  she  had  hitherto  found  her,  and  would 
make  no  confidant,  even  of  her,  unless  the  wish  was  her 
own. 

'*  If,  as  George  says,  it  is  some  new  trouble  about 
Maurice  Langley,  why  should  she  make  a  mystery  of  it 
now,  when  she  told  the  whole  story  before  her  marriage  ? 


THE  OLD  MILL  BY  THE  RIVER.  193 

And  how  on  earth  can  she  connect  George  with  it  ?  Poor 
George  !  Poor  tender-hearted  fellow  !  He  deserves  better 
fortune  than  that.  And  I  thought  they  would  have  been 
so  hapj)y." 

There  was  a  taj)  at  the  door. 

"  If  you're  not  asleep,  Aunt  Lydia."  an  imploring  little 
voice  said,  "  may  I  come  in,  please  ?" 

*'  Come  in,  Fanny,"  Miss  liarstone  answered.  And 
Fanny,  in  a  loose,  white  morning  gown,  came  in,  her 
abundant  red-brown  hair  falling  in  a  perfumed  cloud  over 
her  shoulders. 

Fanny's  eyes  were  like  stars,  and  Fanny's  cheeks  like 
roses,  and  little,  blissful  smiles  came  and  went  of  them- 
selves about  her  dimpled  mouth.  For  once  in  a  way  great 
happiness  had  made  the  little  heiress  almost  beautiful. 

"  My  child,  something  has  happened — something  pleas- 
ant !  "  Aunt  Lydia  said.  "  What  is  it  ?  Anything  about 
Magdalen  ?  " 

"Anything  about  Magdalen  !"  Fanny  retorted,  with  a 
pout.  *'^.o — you're  always  thinking  of  Magdalen,  all  of 
you.     No,  it's  something  about  myself." 

She  slid  down  in  a  heap  on  the  carpet  at  Miss  Barstone's 
side,  and  bi-ried  her  hot  face  in  the  old  maid's  dress. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Lydia,  I'm  so  happy,  so  happy,  so  happy, 
I  can't  sleep.  I  can't  keep  still ;  and  I  must  tell  some  one, 
or  I  shall  die.  Magdalen  is  cross  and  dismal,  and  has  been 
shut  up  in  her  room  all  the  evening,  ever  since  her  letter 
came  ;  so  I've  come  to  toll  you  I'm  just  the  happiest  girl 
in  all  the  world.  Aunt  Lydia  !" 

The  truth  broke  upon  .Miss  Barstone.  P'anny's  infatua- 
tion about  her  medical  nephew  was  no  secret  to  her,  but 
hitherto  she  had  troubled  herself  little  about  it.  Phil  was 
not  a  marrying  man  at  any  time  ;  and  if  he  had  been, 
little  freckled  and  dunuiy  Fanny  would  have  been  about 
the  last  young  lady  he  would  have  chosen.  But  Fanny 
had  sixty  thousand  dollars  in  her  own  right  now,  and  the 
whole  case  was  altered. 

"  It  is  I'hil,"  Aunt  Lydia  said.  "  Surely,  surely,  Fanny, 
he  has  no  L " 

"  But  he  has  !  "  Fanny  cried.  ''  And  oh,  Aunt  Lydia, 
I  love  him  so  !  I  love  him  so  !  I  feel  just  wild  to-night  !  I 
am  so  glad  I've  got  that  fortune,  because  I  don't  believe 
he  would  ever  have  spoken  but  for  that.'' 


194  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

''  Neither  do  I,"  said  Aunt  Lydia,  rather  shortly.  "  lie 
ought' to  be  ashamed  of  himself  !  Not  a  week  here,  either. 
I  tiiought  better  of  Phil.  A  mere  fortune-hunter  !  It  is 
a  shame  !  a  shame  !  a  shame  !  " 

"It's  nothing  of  the  sort!"  Miss  Winters  retorted, 
spiritedly.  "I  tell  you  I  love  him  so  well  that  I  should 
break  my  heart  if  he  married  anybody  else  !  I  wish  I  had 
sixty  millions,  instead  of  sixty  thousand,  so  he  might  have 
it  all  !  Oh,  auntie  !  He  spoke  so  beautiful  !  He  said 
he  knew  he  was  unworthy  ;  that  he  loved  me  too  well  to 
ask  me  to  be  his  wife  while  I  was  poor,  for  was  he  not 
poor,  too  ?  and  that  the  whole  aim  of  his  life  should  be  to 
make  me  happy.  And  he  asked  me  when  I  would  marry 
him,  and  I  said  just  as  soon  as  ever  he  liked." 

"  You  said  that  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  did  !  It  was  the  truth,  you  know.  And 
we  are  going  to  be  married  early  in  March,  and  sail  right 
away  for  Europe.  Won't  that  be  lovely  ?  And  oh,  I  feel 
as  though  I  were  in  heaven,  not  on  earth  !  And  he  is  an 
angel — don't  you  say  a  word  against  him.  Aunt  Lydia — he 
is — and  I  worship  the  very  ground  he  walks  on  !  I  left 
him  out  smoking  with  George,  now,  and  I  had  to  come  in 
and  tell  you,  because  I  couldn't  keep  it  till  morning. 
And  now  vou  want  to  go  to  bed,  dear,  darling  auntie,  so 
I'll  run  away  and  send  Susan.  I  wish  you  were  as  happy 
as  I  am,  but  I  know  it's  of  no  use  wishing  that.  No  one 
on  earth  could  be  !  Good  night.  Aunt  Lydia,  and  please 
wish  me  joy." 

''  God  bless  you,  my  poor  child  !  "  Aunt  Lydia  said, 
with  a  happy  sigh.  ''I  hope— I  hope  you  may  be 
happy  ! " 

"  liope  she  might  be  happy  ! "  Miss  Winters  smiled  to 
herself  at  the  thought,  and  little  thrills  of  song  burst  from 
her  lips  as  she  tripped  away  to  her  own  room.  She  heard 
Phil  and  George  saying  good  night  and  departing  to  tlieir 
rooms,  and  all  her  heart  thrilled  at  the  sound  of  her  idol's 
voice. 

"Oh,  mv  darling!  my  darling  !  "  she  whispered.  "1 
wish  it  was  morning,  that  I  might  be  with  you  again  !  " 
There  was  more  then  one  head  that  tossed  upon  a  sleep, 
less  pillow  that  night.  Aunt  Lydia's  slumbers  were  hardly 
likely  to  be  sweetened  by  her  ward's  communication. 
She  happened  to  know  a  little  more  of  her  nephew  Phil's 


THE  OLD  MILL  BY  THE  RIVER.  195 

antecedents  tliaii  Funny  did,  and  tliat  little  was  by  no 
means  reassuring. 

And  (jleorge — the  soundest  of  sleepers  in  a  general  way 
— found  that  mysterious  letter  from  Mr.  Johnstone  wliich 
his  wife  had  received  that  evening  anything  but  an  opiatt*. 
She  had  not  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  and  lie  and 
Phil  had  had  their  smoke  and  talk  out  under  the  black 
night  sky  ;  but  neither  had  alluded,  ever  so  remotely,  to 
that  letter. 

Perhaps  the  only  two  who  did  sleep  were  the  newly  be- 
trothed. Doctor  Philip  rarely  excited  himself  about  any- 
thing, and  his  last  waking  thoughts  were  not  of  Fanny, 
but  of  Magdalen. 

"  The  postmark  was  Millford.  So  he  has  followed  her 
here,"  bemused.  '*  lie  will  be  wanting  to  meet  lier  some- 
where— for,  of  course,  he  won't  come  to  the  house.  I'll 
keep  my  eyes  upon  you,  Mrs.  Barstone,  and  when  you 
meet  Mr.  Johnstone  I'll  endeavor  to  be  there  also.  Deuce 
take  the  fellow  !  I  wish  they  had  kept  him  in  Sing  Sing 
another  month  or  so,  until  I  was  safely  married  and  out 
of  the  country." 

The  next  morning,  ere  Doctor  Barstone  had  left  his 
apartment,  there  came  a  message  from  his  aunt,  '*  Miss 
Barstone's  compliments,  please,  and  would  he  step  up  to 
her  room  after  breakfast  ?  " 

Phil  sent  an  affirmative  answer,  of  course.  He  under- 
stood the  whole  matter  at  once. 

"  Fanny's  been  telling  already.  What  a  hurry  she  was 
in  !  However,  it  had  to  be  gone  through  with,  and 
as  well  sooner  as  later." 

His  betrothed  was  in  the  breakfast-room,  when  he  en- 
tered, waiting  for  him,  with  oh  !  such  a  radiant  face  I 
The  February  morning  was  raw  and  leaden  and  black,  and 
bitter,  but  the  girl's  happy  face  seemed  to  fill  the  room 
with  sunshine. 

Poor  little  Fanny  !  George  was  there,  reading  a  crack- 
ling morning  paper,  and  George's  wife  sat  beside  the 
coffee  urn,  waiting  to  preside,  and,  in  the  faces  of  those 
two  people.  Doctor  Barstone  went  over  and  openly  kissed 
Fanny  ! 

"  Good  morning,  my  dear  !  "  he  said  languidly  ; 
*'  really  you  are  growing  prettier  every  day  I  Look  at 
those  peony  cheeks,  my  dear  Mrs.   Barstone,   and  those 


19G  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

sparkling  eyes,  and  all  those  smiles  and  dimples,  and  get 
the  recipe.  It  freshens  up  an  old  stager  like  myself  only 
to  look  at  you." 

"The  recipe  is  happiness  I"  Fanny  cried,  delightedly  ; 
"  and  Magdalen  ought  to  have  it,  for  isn't  she  a  bride, 
just  completing  the  honeymoon  ?  They  say  brides  are 
always  happy  ;  but  I  am  sure  they  can  never  be  half  so 
happy  as  I  am  !  " 

There  was  rather  an  awkward  little  pause.  Mrs.  Bar- 
stone  went  steadily  on  with  the  business  of  pouring  out 
coffee.  Mr.  Barstone  gazed  steadily  into  his  roll  and 
Doctor  Barstone  inwardly  enjoyed  their  discomfiture. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  going  to  be  a  snow  storm,"  Fanny 
continued  ;  and  I  wanted  so  much  to  go  to  Millford  this 
morning.  I  shall  go  in  any  case.  You'll  drive  me  down, 
won't  you,  Phil  ?  " 

Phil  professed  his  readiness,  and,  breakfast  over,  went 
at  once  to  his  aunt's  room. 

He  found  her  much  as  Fanny  had  found  her  last  night 
— sitting  dejectedly  over  the  fire. 

"  Good  morning,  aunt.  I  trust  I  find  you.  well  to-day. 
You  wished  to  see  me,  I  believe." 

(<  Yes — come  in,  Phil — sit  down.  It's  about  this 
wretched  affair  of  Fanny's." 

"  Wretched  affair  ?  I  don't  understand.  Has  Fanny 
come  to  grief  in  any  way  ?  " 

"  She  is  likely  to,  I  think.  It's  not  possible,  Phil,  you 
really  have  asked  her  to  be  your  wife  !  " 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Doctor  Phil,  "  that's  the  '  wretched  affair,' 
to  which  you  allude,  is  it  ?  My  good  aunt,  it  is  quite  pos- 
sible. I  asked  Miss  Winters  last  night  to  marry  me,  and 
Miss  Winters  said  yes  upon  the  spot," 

There  was  a  certain  quiet  defiance  in  his  tone — a  certain 
latent  glitter  in  his  hazel  eyes  that  Aunt  Lydia  had  often 
seen  there  in  his  boyhood  when  he  meant  mischief.  It 
warned  her  that  entreaty  or  reproach  would  be  equally 
thrown  away  now. 

*'  You  are  marrying  her  for  her  fortune,  of  course  ?  " 
she  said  quietly. 

"  My  dear  lady,  no — not  at  all.  Really,  such  plain 
speaking  is  barbarous.  By  no  means  !  I  am  very  much 
attached  to  Miss  Winters,  I  assure  you.  She  is  an  amiable 
little  person,  I  believe,  as  it  is  in  the  nature  of  little  girls 


THE  OLD  MILL  BY  THE  RIVER.  19t 

with  light  eyes  and  freckles  to  be.  At  the  same  time, 
men,  as  a  rule,  don't  marry  young  ladies  because  they  are 
freckled  and  amiable  ;  aiuf  though,  as  I  said  before,  1  am 
deeply  attached  to  Miss  Winters,  still,  ])erhaps,  I  might 
not  have  proposed  upon  tiie  present  occasion  hud  thel-e  not 
been  sixty  thousand  doUars  in  the  background." 

*'  Pliil  !  Piiil  !  have  you  no  sense  of  honor  ?  It  is  base  ! 
It  is  cruel  !  It  is  inhuman  !  And  this  unfortunate  child 
loves  you  so  !  " 

'>  Exactly  ;  and  this  unfortunate  cliihl  will  consider  her- 
self more  unfortunate  if  I  don't  marry  her.  Have  I  no 
sense  of  honor  ?  My  dear  aunt,  it  is  purest  philanthropy 
to  make  her  my  wife.  Slie  will  break  her  heart  (she  says 
so,  at  least,  though  looked  at  prof  essionally,  the  statement 
is  absurd)  if  she  doesn't. " 

"  Philip,  I  cannot  countenance  this  match  ! " 

"My  good  lady,  I  haven't  asked  you,  have  I  ?  Miss 
Winters  is  of  age — lier  fortune  is  her  own — she  is  ready  to 
run  away  with  me  to-morrow  if  I  ask  her.  I  am  an 
eminently  respectable  young  man  now,  and  mean  to  get 
married  in  an  eminently  respectable  manner.  My  good 
aunt,  look  at  it  rationally.  If  I  don't  marry  Fanny  for 
her  money,  some  one  else  will.  She  isn't  a  beauty — isn't 
a  genius — she's  a  dreadful  little  bore  as  a  rule  ;  and  who- 
ever marries  her  will  have  an  eye  to  the  main  chance, 
guard  her  as  you  please.  I  mean  to  be  very  good  to  her 
when  she  is  Mrs.  Philip  Barstone  ;  and  I  think,  even  if  I 
weren't  very  good  to  her,  this  love-sick  little  girl  would  still 
be  happy  as  my  wife.  I  must  be  a  fascinating  fellow,  no 
doubt,  to " 

"  Oh.  Phil  !  "  his  aunt  cried,  in  a  pained  voice,  "  don't ! 
How  heartless,  how  cynical,  how  worldly  you  have  grown  ! 
There  was  a  time  when  you  had  some  aifection  and  respect 
for  me." 

"  That  time  is  yet,"  her  nephew  answered.  "  You  are 
the  only  woman  on  earth  wliom  I  do  respect  very  greatly  ; 
but  still,  in  this  matter,  you  will  permit  me  to  judge  for 
myself.  Look  here.  Aunt  Lydia,  George  was  always 
your  favorite  nephew  ;  as  a  boy  he  possessed  the  larger 
siiare  of  your  iilfection,  and  plum  cakes  and  taffy  and 
pocket  money.  As  a  man  you  like  him  about  ten  times  as 
well  as  you  do  me.  Well,  so  be  it.  I  don't  make  a  howl- 
ing over  it.     He  deserved  it!    He  was  always  the  good 


198  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

boy  of  tho  family,  and  I  the  black  sheep.  He  slipped  once, 
perhaps,  but  he  picked  himself  up  very  quickly,  and  I 
think  yoii  were  rather  fonder  of  your  repentant  prodigal 
than  ever,  weren't  you  ?  George  has  married,  with  your 
full  approbation,  a  tall,  stately  young  lady,  without  a 
penny  to  bless  herself  with,  who  comes  to  you  under  a 
false  name,  and  whose  relatives,  so  far  as  we  can  hear  of 
them,  are  about  as  bad  a  lot  as  you  will  easily  find.  Your 
favorite,  George,  marries  her,  I  say,  with  your  free  con- 
sent, and  now  that  I  wish  to  marry  your  ward,  you  will 
approve  or  not  as  you  see  fit ;  but — I  shall  marry  her  all 
the  same." 

The  gleam  in  his  brown  eyes,  the  hard  compression  of 
his  mustached  mouth,  were  very  familiar  to  Aunt  Lydia. 

"  I  have  nothing  more  to  say,"  she  answered,  quietly. 
*'  If  George  has  been  my  favorite,  you  know  whose  fault 
it  has  been  also." 

**  Mine,  of  course.  Have  I  not  said  so  ?  Have  I  not 
owned  to  being  the  black  sheep  of  the  flock  ?  I  don't 
complain.  You  are  quite  right,  as  you  always  are  ;  only 
I  hope  you  will  permit  Fanny  to  be  married  from  Golden 
Willows,  and  outwardly,  at  least,  with  your  approbation." 

Miss  Barstone  bent  her  head.  There  was  a  pause.  Her 
earnest  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  nephew's  cold,  hard,  hand- 
some face,  in  which  no  sign  of  softening  came. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question,  Phil,"  she  said,  with 
hesitation  —  ''  a  question  which,  perhaps,  you  won't 
like." 

"  Better  leave  it  unasked,  then,  my  dear  aunt. 

*•'  It  is  concerning  your — your  wife." 

Philip  Barstone  turned  upon  her  almost  fiercely. 

"  My  wife  ! "  he  said.     *'  What  wife  ?  I  have  no  wife  !  " 

*'  I  mean  your  late  wife.  Where  did  she  die,  Philip— 
and  of  what  ?  " 

The  gray  darkness  that,  at  rare  times,  overshadowed  the 
young  man's  sallow  face,  overshadowed  it  now. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  speaking  of  her  ?  "  he  demanded, 
with  a  suppressed  intensity.  "  George  had  to  bring  up 
her  name  in  New  York,  and  now  you  do.  What  do  either 
of  you  wish  to  learn  about  her  ?  Is  it  not  sufficient  to 
know  she  is  dead,  without  dragging  her  out  of  her  grave 
upon  every  occasion.  I  tell  you  I  won't  have  it !  She 
died  in  Bellevue  Hospital— there  I    I  have  seen  her  grave. 


THE  OLD  MILL  BY  THE  RIVER.  199 

Will  that  satisfy  you  ?     Now,  let's  drop  the  subject   at 
once,  and  forever." 

He  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped  his  face,  upon 

which  grejit  drops  stood. 

Miss  Burstoiie  sut  looking  at  liiiii  in  mute  amaze. 

"I  beg  your  });ir(lon  for  tliis  violence,"'  he  said,  after  a 
moment,  "  but  I  hate  to  look  buck — I  hate  to  think  of 
tliat  horrible  time.  Do  you  su})pose  it  can  be  pleasant  to 
recall  the  mad  folly  of  a  nuid  and  reckless  youth  ?  I  am 
doing  my  best  of  late  years  to  lead  the  sort  of  life  I  wish 
to  heaven  I  had  led  always,  and  I  want  to  forget  the  rash 
folly  of  past  years,  if  I  can.  You  haven't  spoken  to 
Fanny  of — of  this,  surely  ?  " 

''  Do  you  think  I  should  not  speak  of  it  ?"  his  aunt 
asked,  gravely,  "  or  has  she  not  the  right  to  know  ?  " 

"  She  has  no  right  to  "know  ;  it  can  in  nowise  affect 
her.  I  deny  that  any  man's  wife  has  any  concern  with 
his  past.  Let  him  be  faitliful  to  her  ;  the  most  exacting 
wife  can  require  no  more.  I  don't  suppose  George  has 
taken  Magdalen  into  his  confidence  about  that  little  lapse 
of  his,  past  and  gone.  He  says,  and  rightly,  it  is  nothing 
to  her.  No  more  it  is  ;  no  more  is  my  past  to  Fanny. 
No,  Aunt  Lydia,  I  refuse  giving  my  permission  to  inform 
her  of  this.  She  would  be  none  the  happier  for  knowing, 
and  now,  as  I  am  going  with  her  to  Millford,  I  will  take 
my  leave,  if  you  have  quite  finished  what  you  sent  for  me 
to  say." 

Doctor  Philip's  haste,  however,  was  by  no  means  upon 
Fanny's  account.  He  had  determined  to  watch  Magdalen 
closely,  something  more  than  curiosity  to  gratify  being  at 
stake  here.  It  was  past  ten,  by  his  watch,  as  he  descended 
the  stairs  and  encountered  F'anny  in  the  lower  hall,  gaz- 
ing at  the  dull  prospect  without. 

"  Oh,  you  have  made  your  escape  ! "  Miss  Winters  said, 
advancing  to  meet  him.  "  I  thought  Aunt  Lydia  meant 
to  keep  you  with  her  all  day.  What  was  it  about  ?  About 
me  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes — I  believe  your  name  was  mentioned.  I 
thought  you  wanted  to  go  to  Millford — why  are  you  not 
dressed  ?  Go — hurry  up,  like  a  good  girl.  I  want  to  run 
in  myself  for  a  fresh  supply  of  cigars.  Get  Mrs.  Barstone 
to  help  you  titivate.     She  is  up  in  her  room,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  No,  she  isn't ;  she's  taken  the  cutter  and  driven  her- 


200  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

self  into  Millford.  She  said  she  wanted  to  visit  her  dress- 
maker,' but  I  know  she  is  going  to  post  a  letter,  because 
it  dropped  from  her  pocket  as  she  pulled  her  handker- 
chief out.  I  suppose  she's  been  writing  an  answer  to 
that  letter  she  got  last  night — to  her  old  nurse,  most 
likely.  But  she  said  she  would  be  back  by  eleven,  at 
latest ;  so  come  into  the  breakfast- room  and  let's  have  a 
nice  sociable  talk." 

Philip  Barstone  thought  a  moment  and  followed  her. 
He  would  have  given  a  good  deal  for  a  glance  at  that 
letter  George's  wife  had  gone  to  post.  We,  more  fortu- 
nate, can  break  the  seal  and  peep  in.  There  was  no  date 
or  signature. 

"  Half  mile  from  your  boarding  house,  on  the  bank  of 
the  river,  there  stands  an  old,  disused  sawmill.  The  spot 
is  lonely  ;  there  is  no  house  near,  and  no  one  approaches 
it  after  nightfall,  as,  like  all  disused  places  of  the  sort,  it 
is  popularly  supposed  to  be  haunted,  I  will  be  there  this 
evening,  at  six  o'clock,  if  possible. '^ 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THAT    NIGHT. 

Mrs.    Barstone,    true  to  her  promise,   returned    to 

Golden  Willows  ere  eleven  o'clock,  and  Miss  Winters  and 
her  lover  departed  for  the  town. 

"  She  will  not  quit  the  house  in  our  absence,"  Phil 
thought.  "  She  will  not  leave  Aunt  Lydia  alone,  and  she 
cannot  very  well  receive  him  here,  in  broad  day.  To- 
night will  be  the  earliest  time  she  can  possibly  meet  him." 

Doctor  Philip,  therefore,  departed  in  very  good  spirits. 
All  things  were  settled  now.  Nothing  remained  but  to 
marry  Fanny  and  go  abroad  and  forget  all  the  little  un- 
pleasantness of  bygone  days  in  fair  foreign  lands.  He 
followed  his  affianced,  with  a  ready  good  nature  George 
could  not  have  surpassed,  from  one  dry  goods  store  to  the 
other,  toning  down  her  gaudy  fancies  and  correcting  her 
gorgeous  taste  by  his  own  grave  one.  They  lunched  at  a 
saloon  and  the  wintry  afternoon  was  at  its  coldest  and 
grayest  ere  they  returned  home,  the  little  sleigh  quite 
freighted  with  parcels. 


THAT  NIGHT.  201 

"There's  George,"  exclaimed  Fanny.  "What  on 
eai'th  brings  liini  lionie  at  this  hour  ?  " 

Mr.  Barstone,  since  his  return,  never  made  his  appear- 
ance at  Golden  Willows  from  eight  o'clock  breakfast  until 
the  six  o'clock  dinner.  lie  was  kept  very  busy  at  Mill- 
ford,  and  mostly  dropped  into  some  restaurant  there  for 
a  mid-day  meal.  Kow,  however,  at  four  in  the  after- 
noon, he  was  standing  on  the  door-step,  drawing  on  his 
gloves. 

"Something  new,  this,  isn't  it  ?"  Phil  said.  "'We 
don't  often  see  you  at  this  time  of  the  day  1  What  brings 
yon  up  ?" 

"  Client  of  mine  dying,  has  sent  for  me  to  make  his 
will.  I've  made  it  five  times  before  and  every  time  he's 
got  better  and  changed  his  mind.  Now  he's  dying  again, 
or  thinks  so,  and  I  must  draw  up  a  sixth.  He  lives  fif- 
teen miles  out  of  Millford,  so  I  shall  have  to  remain  all 
night.  Now,  Peter,  my  man,  as  I  want  to  catch  the  4:'-20 
train,  jump  in  and  drive  as  if  the  deuce  was  after  you. 
By-by,  all,  until  to-morrow." 

He  sprang  in  and  was  driven  away,  his  last  backward 
glance  directed  to  the  drawing-room  window,  where  a 
quiet  figure  sat.  But  the  quiet  figure  never  moved  nor 
answered  that  farewell  look.     She  was  only  thinking  : 

"  Is  he  really  going,  or  does  he  suspect,  and  is  it  only 
a  rase  to  watch  me  ?  " 

Fanny  burst  in  upon  her  reverie,  with  her  innumerable 
parcels,  and  a  glory  of  dry  goods  was  at  once  unfolded  for 
Magdalen's  inspection. 

The  time  had  been— and  not  so  long  ago— when  Mag- 
dalen would  have  had  all  a  woman's  keen  interest  in  such 
things — when  the  hue  of  a  ribbon,  the  shade  of  a  silk,  the 
pattern  and  texture  of  the  laces,  would  have  absorbed  her 
most  vivid  attention.  But  that  time  was  past,  and, 
divided  from  the  present  by  a  dark  and  heavy  trouble,  the 
happy  girl  sat,  a  haggard  and  wretched  woman.  She 
beheld  blue  silk  and  pink  silk,  and  green  silk  spread  on 
the  carpet,  in  vague  splendor  of  coloring  ;  but  the  hope- 
less eyes  never  lit  up,  and  the  words  that  answered 
Fanny's  raptures  were  very  brief  and  indifferent. 

"  I  declare  it's  too  bad  !"  Fanny  cried  at  hist,  losing 
all  patience,  and  gathering  up  the  rich  textures  in  a  heap; 
**  I  don't  know  what's  come  to  you,  Magdalen  I     You'r* 


202  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

not  a  bit  like  you  used  to  be.  I'll  fetch  them  up  to 
Aunt  Lydia — she'll  take  a  little  interest  in  me  and  my 
wedding  clothes,  perhaps  ?  If  marriage  changes  every- 
body for  the  worse  as  it  has  done  you,  married  ladies  must 
be  nice  people  to  live  with  !  You've  grown  fifteen  years 
older  in  five  weeks,  and  I  don't  believe  it's  George's  fault, 
either  ;  because  it's  quite  ridiculous  the  way  he  goes  on 
about  you  !  Perhaps  you  met  some  old  lover  in  New 
York,  and  are  breaking  your  heart  for  him  now  that  it's 
too  late  ?  " 

Magdalen  smiled  faintly,  but  the  smile  faded  as  quick 
as  it  came. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Fanny,"  she  said.  "  The  dresses 
are  very  pretty,  and  I  wish  you  every  happiness.  My — 
my  troublesome  headache  is  back  again.  While  you 
show  the  things  to  Miss  Barstone  I  will  go  up  to  my 
room." 

She  arose  slowly,  leaving  the  doctor  alone  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, with  his  book,  over  the  top  of  which  he  had 
been  steadfastly  regarding  her.  She  lingered  for  a  mo- 
ment in  the  hall,  looking  out  through  the  side  lights  at 
the  rapidly  darkening  sky. 

It  was  hardly  five,  but  already  almost  night.     The  sky 
lay  low  and  leaden,  the  bleak  wind  tossed  the  bare  trees. 
Moonless,  starless,  the  night  was  falling,  and  already  a 
few  feathery  flakes  whirled  through  the  opaque  air,  pre-' 
scient  of  the  coming  storm. 

As  she  lingered  there,  Peter  drove  rapidly  up  from  the 
gate.     She  opened  the  door  and  spoke  to  him. 

"  Peter  !  " 

*'  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Was  Mr.  Barstone  in  time  for  the  train  ?  " 

"  Plenty  time,  ma'am — ten  minutes  too  soon." 

"  You  saw  him  off,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  Peter  answered,  and  the  girl  drew  a 
long  breath  of  relief. 

It  was  no  ruse  after  all ;  he  had  really  gone. 

"  It  is  three  miles  from  here  to  the  old  mill,"  she 
thought.  "  If  I  start  at  once,  I  will  be  there  before  the 
appointed  time.  But  the  storm  is  increasing,  and  Willie 
will  be  in  waiting,  I  know." 

She  went  up  to  her  room,  put  on  her  warmest  jacket 
and  a  Berlin  hood,  and  took  an  umbrella. 


THAT  XIGHT.  203 

"If  I  can  only  leave  the  house  unseen  ?"  she  thought. 

She  opened  her  door,  and  paused  to  listen.  All  was 
still.  In  Miss  Barstone's  room  she  could  hear  Fanny's 
shrill  voice.  She  was  safe  there,  and  Doctor  Phil  was 
probably  absorbed  in  his  book.  She  went  swiftly  and 
lightly  down -stairs,  and  standing  where  she  had  stood  five 
minutes  before  was  Doctor  Phil  ! 

•■  We  are  about  to  have  the  heaviest  snow-storm  of  the 
winter.  What !  my  dear  Mrs.  Barstone — not  surely 
going  out  ?  " 

"I  am  going  out,"  Magdalen  answered,  curtly.  "A 
walk  will  do  my  headache  good." 

She  hated  herself  for  the  falsehood  she  told — she  hated 
the  man  who  made  her  tell  it— not  but  that  her  head  did 
seem  to  ache  with  a  dull,  perpetual  pain,  of  late. 

"  But  in  this  rising  storm  ? — and  see  how  it  increases 
every  instant  !  My  dear  Magdalen,  what  would  George 
say  ?  " 

The  man  was  always  odious  to  her — doubly  odious  when 
he  called  her  by  her  name.  Iler  eyes  quite  flashed  in  the 
twilight  as  they  met  his  sinister  hazel  orbs. 

"He  would  say  I  was  free  to  do  as  I  pleased — as  I 
shall  ! " 

AYith  that  reply,  she  opened  the  house  door  and  walked 
rapidly  out  into  the  whirling  storm. 

Doctor  Philip  looked  after  her  until  the  falling  snow 
and  deepening  darkness  hid  her  tall,  slim,  graceful  figure 
from  his  sight. 

'*  You  are  going  to  meet  Mr.  Johnstone,  my  dear  Mag- 
dalen, and,  as  the  cousin  of  your  husband,  it  is  my  duty 
to  protect  you,  even  against  your  own  will.  If  you  can 
brave  this  storm,  I  dare  say  I  can;  though,  upon  my  soul 
I  had  much  rather  you  had"  chosen  a  finer  night !  " 

He  took  down  his  hat  and  overcoat,  drew  on  his  gloves, 
and  taking  a  stout  walking  stick  of  George's,  opened  the 
door  in  turn,  and  was  plunging  resolutely  out  into  the 
storm,  when  Fanny's  high  voice  accosted  him  from  the 
head  of  the  stairs. 

<'  Phil  !  Phil  !  where  on  earth  are  yon  going  this  time 
of  evening  ?  Don't  you  know  it's  snowing  cats  and  dogs  ? 
— and  dinner  will  be  ready  in  half  an  hour  !" 

"Oh,  confound  you!"  muttered  Fanny's  betrothed, 
between  his  set  teeth.     "  The  Old  Harry  seems  to  send 


304  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

that  girl  always  in  my  way  !     I'll  tell  her,  however.     Here 
Fan  !  look  here  a  moment." 

Fanny  came  down  in  a  rush. 

^'  I  say,  Fanny,"  her  lover  said,  in  a  confidential  under- 
tone, "  I  am  going  after  George's  wife.  She  has  left  the 
house,  dressed  for  a  walk,  mind,  at  this  hour,  and  in  this 
storm  alone.  A  person  who  does  such  a  thing  as  that  is 
worth  watching.  I'm  going  after  her,  to  see  she  comes  to 
no  harm.  If  you're  hungry,  dine  with  Aunt  Lydia — don't 
wait  for  me." 

He  gave  Fanny  no  time  to  reply — he  departed  at  once. 
And  Fanny,  agape  with  wonder  and  consternation,  went 
straight  back  to  Miss  Barstone's  room  and  imparted  to  her 
the  tidings. 

"Magdalen  must  be  going  crazy,  I  think,"  she  said  to 
the  alarmed  mistress  of  the  house.  ''Xobody  in  their 
senses  ever  went  on  as  she  goes  on.  She  used  to  be  fond 
of  George — now  she  can't  bear  him.  She  used  to  laugh 
and  talk  with  him,  and  say  funny  things,  and  be  lovely 
about  the  house — now  she  mopes  like  an  old  owl  in  the 
daylight.  She  won't  even  look  at  my  new  dresses,  and 
she  never  once  asked  me  how  many  bridesmaids  I  mean  to 
have,  or  whether  my  wedding-dress  was  to  be  white  moire, 
or  white  satin,  or  white  cotton  cloth.  Do  you  suppose  she 
can  have  some  old  lover  she's  pining  after,  Aunt 
Lydia  ?  " 

"  Nonsense,  Fanny !  how  dare  you  suggest  such  a 
wicked  thing  ! " 

"  Oh,  it's  wicked,  is  it  ?  to  suggest  it  only.  And  Mag- 
dalen's perfection,  of  course — she  wouldn't  do  a  wicked 
thing.  Now,  suppose  I  went  out  into  the  garden  to-night, 
and  met  a  strange  man  there,  and  kissed  him,  and  walked 
with  him,  and  came  in  and  never  told  Phil  or  nobody, 
what  would  you  call  that  ?  " 

Miss  Winters  spoke  defiantly,  tossing  her  red-brown 
head.  She  had  kept  Magdalen's  secret  a  long  time  ;  now 
it  was  out,  after  all. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Fanny?"  Miss  Barstone  de- 
manded, sternly.     "  Magdalen  never  did  this." 

"  Ob,  didn't  she  ?  I  suppose  I  didn't  see  her  from  my 
bedroom  window,  either  !  It  was  just  before  she  married 
George — when  you  were  ill,  you  know,  and  she  did  meet 
ft  man,  and  she  did  kiss  him,  and  she  did  walk  with  him 


THAT  NIGHT.  205 

in  the  garden  for  half  an  hour,  and  I  never  spoke  of  it  be- 
fore to  a  creature.     Maybe  slie  told  George  but " 

Miss  Winters  ])ursed  up  her  lips  in  a  way  tliat  showed 
she  didn't  believe  it. 

Miss  Barstone  extorted  from  Fanny  all  Fanny  had  to 
tell  of  that  memorable  night.  And  wiiile  Fanny  told,  the 
unhappy  culprit  herself  was  speeding  rapidly  through  the 
double  darkness  of  night  and  storm  to  the  place  of  tryst. 

Tlie  road  was  very  louely — the  darkness  intense  ;  but 
Magdalen  knew  it  well. 

How  often,  in  the  first  days  of  her  arrival  at  Golden 
Willows,  she  liad  strolled  away  with  P'anny  to  sketch  the 
picturesque  old  mill,  the  flowing,  rapid  river.  The  cold 
was  bitter,  but  she  was  warmly  clad  ;  she  never  felt  it. 
The  icy  wind  sent  the  frozen  snow  sharply  into  her  face, 
but  she  flew  on  before  it  almost  as  swiftly  as  the  wind  it- 
self. It  gave  Doctor  Philip,  coming  after  her  witli  his 
long,  man's  strides,  enough  to  do  to  keep  her  in  sight. 
The  falling  snow  muffled  theii  footsteps  ;  his  keen  eyes 
could  just  discern,  athwart  the  white  darkness  of  the  snow- 
storm, the  rapidly  moving  figure  ahead.  It  haunted  him, 
that  weird  night  scene,  for  many  a  day  to  come.  Tiie  roar 
of  the  angry  river  blended  with  the  shrieking  of  the  wind 
at  last.  The  lights  of  ]\Iillford  gleamed  lurid  through  the 
whirling  drifts  ;  the  great  factories  all  ablaze,  their  tall 
chimneys  vomiting  black  smoke  and  showers  of  fiery 
sparks.  Turning  from  these,  Magdalen  took  the  deserted 
pathway  leading  down  to  the  river.  The  old  mill  loomed 
up  black  in  the  luminous  darkness.  The  way  that  led  to 
it  was  slippery  and  dangerous  ;  but  she  })lunged  resolutely 
ahead,  pausing  only  when  very  near  its  yawning  entrance. 

'*  Willie  !  "  she  called. 

"  Hallo  ?  "  answered  a  voice. 

The  same  instant  a  figure  emerged  from  the  doorway 
and  stood  before  her.  The  figure  held  a  dark  lantern,  and 
its  red  ray  illuminated  the  face  of  Willie  Alhvard. 

"  I  am  here,  you  see,  Magdalen,  though  1  didn't  think 
yon  would  come  in  this  confounded  storm.  You're  a 
trump,  by  George! — plucky  enough  for  anytliing.  Give 
us  a  hold  of  your  haiid — look  out — it's  dangerous — this 
way.     I  suppose  you're  about  frozen." 

"Frozen!  Xo,  I  have  felt  no  cold.  For  pity's  sake, 
Willie,  put  that  lantern  out  of  sight — some  one  may  pass.'* 


206  MAGDALEN'S  YOW. 

"  Well,  if  they  do,  it  will  onl}^  help  to  convince  thera 
that  the  old  mill  is  haunted."  \Villie  set  the  lantern  in  a 
corner.  "No  one  can  see  it  now,  and  this  is  a  horrible 
place  and  such  a  horrible  night.  Sit  down.  How  did 
you  manage  to  get  off  at  all  in  such  a  tempest  ?" 

"I  came — I  asked  no  one's  permission.  George  is  ab- 
sent for  the  niglit,  fortunately,  though  had  he  not  been,  I 
would  have  still  kept  my  word  and  came." 

"What  a  brick  you  are,  Magdalen  !"  Willie  repeated 
admiringly.  "  It's  a  pity  you're  not  a  man.  And  you'll 
require  all  your  pluck,  I  can  tell  you,  to  hear  the  story 
you'll  hear  to-night." 

"I  can  bear  it.  There  is  nothing  you  can  tell  I  cannot 
bear  now." 

"  Ah,  you  think  so,  but  this  is  the  worst  yet !  I  tell  you 
there  isn't  such  another  villain  on  God's  earth  as  the  man 
you  have  married." 

"Will  you  go  on  ?" 

She  had  seated  herself  upon  a  pile  of  old  lumber,  her 
hands  clasped  hard  on  her  lap,  her  large  luminous  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  blackness  beyond.  The  dull  red  glimmer 
of  the  lamp  in  the  corner  lighted  up  her  cold,  rigid  face, 
while  Willie's  was  shaded.  And  through  the  ruinous  old 
mill  the  wild  wind  of  the  winter  niglit  shrieked,  and  above 
its  cries  came  the  roar  of  the  river,  swollen  and  rapid.  A 
fitting  scene,  a  fitting  time,  for  the  story  Willie  Allward 
had  to  tell. 

Slowly,  stealthily,  surely,  the  man  who  had  dogged 
Magdalen  from  the  house  dogged  her  to  the  very  entrance 
of  that  old  mill.  He  stood  boldly  in  the  dark  doorway 
now,  leaning  against  the  rotting  beams,  seeing  the  girl's 
white  face,  and  straining  every  nerve  to  catch  the  words 
Willie  Allward  spoke  above  the  uproar  of  the  storm. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

TOLD    IN   THE    DARKNESS. 


"  Before  you  left  New  York,  Magdalen,"  Willie  All- 
ward  began,  "  I  told  you  what  you  had  to  hear  was  worse 
tlian  anything  you  had  heard  yet.  I  say  so  still.  It  is 
infinitely  worse.  Are  you  fully  prepared  for  what  I  am 
going  to  say  V 


TOLD  IX  THE  DARKNESS.  207 

"  And,  I  repeat,  it  cannot  be  worse,"  Magdalen's  voice 
answered  out  of  the  pitch  blackness.  Nothing  can — noth- 
ing— no,  nut  if  he  had  committed  a  murder  with  his  own 
hand  I" 

''  You  have  guessed  it  !"  her  brother  said,  with  unusual 
solemnity.  "  He  has  committed  a  murder — a  horrible 
murder — a  double  murder,  in  intention,  at  least.  Good 
God,  Magdalen  !  wliat  a  fiend  incarnate  he  is  ! — a  man 
who  has  murdered  his  own  child — who  thinks  he  has  mur- 
dered his  wife  !" 

"His  wife  ?" 

"His  wife  !  Oh,  heaven  help  you,  Magdalen  Allward  ! 
you  have  never  been  tluit  for  one  potir  hour,  since  the  wife 
he  wedded  six  years  ago  still  lives  !  Yoh  are  what  your 
sister  was  before  you — betrayed,  dishonored,  wrecked  in 
reputation  as  well  as  in  hajipiness  !  You  have  never,  for 
one  instant,  been  really  Maurice  Langley's  wife  !  " 

A  low,  wailing  cry  broke  through  the  darkness  and  the 
storm.  At  last  she  knew  he  had  spoken  the  truth.  She 
had  not  known  the  worst. 

"  Perhaps  I  should  liave  told  you  all  about  this  in  New 
York  ;  but  I  knew  if  I  did  you  would  have  left  him  at 
once,  and  our  game  would  have  been  up.  He  is  the  most 
subtle,  the  most  infernally  cunning,  as  he  is  the  most 
deeply-dyed  of  earthly  villains.  And,  besides,  I  wanted 
lo  consult  Caroline." 

"•Caroline!"  The  voice  of  his  wretched  sister  spoke 
out  of  the  darkness  once  more — so  hollow,  so  hoarse,  he 
scarcely  recognized  it.     "  She  is  the  wife  ?" 

"  She  is.  Her  name  is  Caroline  Reed,  and  she's  at 
present  waiting  my  summons  to  come  down  here  and  con- 
front the  murderer  of  her  child.  But  I  will  begin  the 
story  at  once.  The  cold  is  bitter.  You  will  perish  if  I 
keep  you  here." 

Magdalen  laughed — a  blood-curdling  laugh.  The  list- 
ener in  the  doorway  shuddered  as  he  heard  it.  The  words 
he  was  far  too  distant  to  catch  through  the  turmoil  of  the 
storm. 

"Cold!"  she  said.  "I  wonder  what  cold  or  heat 
would  affect  me  now  !  Yes,  Willie,  begin  the  story  you 
have  to  tell.  Let  me  hear  what  a  vile  wretch  I  am,  and 
how  low  I  have  fallen  I " 

"You  have  Laura's  letter,"  Willie  began,  hastily,  draw- 


208  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

ing  nearer.  "  Eachel  told  me  of  that  ;  and  in  that  letter 
she  has  told  yon,  of  course,  how  an  anonymous  note  first 
informed  her  she  was  not  Maurice  Langley's  wife  ;  that 
his  wife  lived,  and  was  ready  to  prove  tlie  validity  of 
her  claim.  Laura  may  have  suspected  before.  Langley 
was  never  sober  in  those  days,  and  wlien  very  drunk  used 
:o  babble  like  an  idiot — his  own  secrets,  and  all.  She  ran 
iway  that  very  night,  as  you  know,  returned  to  the  ])Oor, 
deserted  homestead,  and  died  there.  All  this  you 
know  ?" 

"  Yes,"  Magdalen's  hollow  voice  said. 

"  It  was  the  next  day — rather,  the  next  night — before 
the  news  reached  me,  and  then  not  through  Langley,  you 
may  be  sure.  I  was  waiting  for  him  in  a  well-known 
gambling  hell,  wild  to  retrieve  my  losses  and  save  myself 
from  arrest  for  forgery — for  the  fatal  deed  that  has  ruined 
my  life  had  been  already  done,  through  his  instigation— 
when  Burns,  another  gambler,  and  drunkard,  and  profligate 
and  heretofore  the  closest  crony  of  Langley  swaggered  up 
to  me  as  I  stood  sullenly  alone. 

'"1  say,  Allward,'  he  said,  with  a  tipsy  wink,  'how's 
our  Damon,  our  Jonathan,  the  friend  of  our  bosom,  our 
well-beloved  Maurice,  to-night,  eh  ?  Xot  got  here  yet, 
hey?' 

"  I  growled  out  surlily  that  I  had  not  seen  him.  I  was 
in  no  mood  for  idle  talk,  and  I  had  always  felt  an  aversion 
to  this  man. 

*'  Burns  laughed,  a  diabolical  gleam  of  malice  in  his 
little  green  eyes. 

"  '  I'm  afraid  our  Maurice  has  been  out  of  sorts  to-day, 
and  I  think  I've  my  revenge  for  all  the  insults  I've  put  up 
with  from  him  lately.  The  faf's  in  the  fire  ;  the  cat's  out 
of  the  bag  :  the  little  party  from  the  country  has  vamoosed 
the  ranch." 

"  '  What  do  you  mean,  you  drunken  vagabond  ?  '  I 
cried,  savagely. 

"  I  knew  he  was  not  aware  Laura  was  my  sister.  I  knew, 
too,  that  she  was  '  the  little  party  from  the  country,'  of 
whom  he  spoke. 

"  *  Drunkard,  am  I  ?  vagabond,  am  I  ?'  he  replied,  in- 
solently. *  I  am  not  a  forger,  at  least.  You  see  it's  "  kiss 
and  tell "  with  our  dear  Maurice.  You  know  the  pretty 
little  girl  from  down  East  Langley's  had  with  him  the  past 


TOLD  IN  THE  DAliKXESS.  200 

eight  months  ?  Tliiiik  she's  hia  wife — poor  little  green 
gooseberry  I  Ilis  wife,  indeed  I  Ha,  ha  I  I  wonder  how 
many  such  wires  he's  had  ?  Now,  Allward,  you  may  ktiow 
what  an  ungrateful  brute  the  beggar  is.  when  I  tell  you  I 
played  parson  for  him  that  time,  and  did  it  so- well  that 
the  little  person  from  New  Hampshire  never  once  suspected 
the  truth.  She  found  it  out  last  night,  though,  and  made 
off  at  tiiat  minute,  by  George!  Spunky  little  Yankee 
girl,  wasn't  she  ?" 

"  ''  I  shook  the  beast  off.  He  had  one  filthy  paw  on  my 
shoulder,  and  his  reeking  breath  blew  in  my  face. 

"  '  Faugh  ! '  I  said.  '  Keep  your  distance,  you  sot,  and 
tell  me  what  you  mean  ?  " 

"  '  If  you  weren't  a  blockhead  you  wouldn't  need  to  ask, 
but  the  verdancy  of  the  clover  and  the  hay  fields  sticks  to 
you,  my  daisy  1  Don't  you  know  the  party  in  (Jreon 
street  ?  You've  been  theVe  with  Langley.  He's  fleeced 
you  there  more  than  once.' 

"'Yes,  yes!     What  of  her?' 

'* '  Kun  away,  my  lad — cut  her  lucky — left  Langley  in 
the  lurch.  Not  that  he  cares.  He  was  sick  of  her  before 
the  end  of  the  honeymoon.  Honeymoon  !  Ha  !  ha  !  I 
wonder  how  many  honeymoons  he's  had  ?' 

-"Why  did  she  leave  him?'  I  said,  in  an  agony. 
'  You  scoundrel  !  do  you  mean  to  say  the  marriage  was  a 
sham  one.  and  that  you  performed  it  ? ' 

"  '  Yes,  my  daisy,  Y'ou've  guessed  it.  I  married  'em, 
and  a  neater  knot  was  never  tied.  But  Langley  insulted 
me  last  week — threw  a  decanter  at  my  head,  by  Jupiter  ! 
and  I  swore  I'd  be  revenged.  So  I  liunted  up  Caroline — 
Caroline  is  his  wife,  you  understaud-married  two  years  ago, 
by  a  regular  white  choker,  and  got  a  kid  nine  months  old — 
very  image  of  its  fascinating  papa.  I  found  out  Caroline, 
as  I  told  you — horrid  little  hole  over  in  Brooklyn— and  told 
her  the  whole  story  of  the  little  party  from  New  Hamp- 
shire. Lor'  !  how  rough  slie  cut  up  !  These  hero 
wimmin  beat  the  doose.  Now  there  was  that  girl,  Caroline. 
Langley  hadn't  done  a  blessed  thing  for  her  for  a  year — 
•never  been  near  her,  vou  may  say — left  her  to  starve  with 
the  kid— and  she  bore  it  all  like  a  what-you-may-call-'em, 
an  angel,  and  treated  him  like  a  dook,  sir,  when  he  did 
come.  But,  Lor'  bless  you  !  no  sooner  does  she  hear  lie's 
got  another   wife,  than  she  carries  out  and  goes  on  moafe 


210  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

awfnl — was  for  flying  over  to  New  York  that  minute,  and 
tearing  •  Missy  Laura's  eyes  out.  I  cooled  her  down 
presently,  got  her  to  write  a  note  to  wife  No.  2,  and 
dropped  it  in  the  post  for  her.  Little  New  Hampshire 
received  it,  and  there  was  the  devil  to  pay  when  Maurice 
came  home.  It  was  the  middle  of  the  night :  but  what's 
the  middle  of  the  night  to  a  young  woman  when  she  gets 
her  back  up  ?  Poor  Maurice  is  a  widower  to-day.  Ha  ! 
ha  !  ha  !  that's  why  you  don't  see  him.' 

**  He  was  swaggering  away,  with  a  drunken  wink  and 
leer,  but  I  caught  him  and  held  him  fast.  I  believe  I  was 
half  choked  with  rage  and  fear  for  Laura. 

"  '  You  beast  ! '  I  cried,  '  stand  still,  or  I'll  throttle 
you  !     Tell  me  where  Laura  has  gone  ?' 

"  '  Don't  know,  Allward.  'Pon  my  word  I  don't.  ^  I  say 
don't  tear  a  man's  coat,  and  don't  glare  in  that  insane 
fashion.     What  the  deuce  was  little  missy  to  you  ?' 

'"She  was  my  sister,  you  cold-blooded  wretch!  By 
heavens  !  if  you  weren't  drunk  as  a  fool  and  old  enough 
to  be  my  father,  I'd  strangle  you  where  you  stand.  Tell 
me,  you  hoary  reprobate,  where  I'll  find  Langley,  or  I  shall 
be  tempted  to  do  it  yet.' 

"  I  had  the  strength  of  a  giant— boy  though  I  was— the 
feeble  old  drunkard  was  a  child  in  my  grasp. 

"  '  I  don't  know,  Willie,'  he  whimpered,  's'elp  me  if  I 
do.  Let  go — there's  a  good  fellow.  Perhaps  he's  gone  to 
Brooklyn  to  blow  up  Caroline.' 

"  '  Give  me  her  address  this  moment,  I  said, 
'  or—' 

"  '  Yes,  yes,  here  it  is.  Let  go,  Allward  !  How  the 
dickens  was  I  to  know  that  missy  was  anything  to  yon.  I 
say,  let  go  ! ' 

"  He  gave  me  the  woman's  address,  and  I  released  him. 
Not  upon  him  should  vengeance  be  wreaked.  If  I  had 
met  Langley  that  night,  I  would  have  had  his  life. 

"  I  started  for  Brooklyn  at  once.  The  street  was  one  of 
the  poorest  and  most  remote  ;  the  house,  when  I  found  it, 
little  better  than  a  hovel,  standing  apart  in  some  swampy 
land.  It  was  almost  two  o'clock  when  I  came  upon  it ; 
but  a  light  still  gleamed  from  its  wretched  windows.  All 
was  still  around.  The  other  houses  up  the  street  were 
distant  and  dark.  I  drew  close  to  the  door  and  heard  the 
voice  of  Langley  distinctly.    He  spoke  loudly  and  reck* 


TOLD  IN  THE  DARKXESS.  211 

lessly,  as  he  always  did  when  intoxicated,  and  a  female 
voice  answered  him,  psissionate  and  di'fiiuit  : 

"'I've  borne  starvation,  and  brutality,  and  desertion 
from  you,  Maurice  Lungley  ! '  1  heard  lier  cry.  'I  tell 
you  I  will  not  bear  this  !  Yes,  I  wrote  that  letter,  and 
Burns  told  me  the  marriage  was  of  his  own  making.  Oh, 
you  villain  !  You  villain,  why  did  I  not  die  before  I  ever 
saw  your  wicked,  false  face  !  False  I  doubly,  trebly 
false!  False  in  name,  for  your  name  is — (the  name  I 
could  not  catch).  False  to  the  aunt  who  loves  and  believes 
in  you  ?  But  I  will  expose  you — I  will  hunt  her  out — I 
will  tell  her  all— I  will ' 

"  She  never  finished  the  sentence.  An  imprecation,  so 
horrible  that  I  cannot  repeat  it,  broke  from  Langley.  I 
sprang  to  the  window,  and  dashed  it  in  ;  but  too  late. 
There  was  a  shriek — a  crash — another  and  another.  He 
had  lifted  the  heavy  wooden  chair  upon  which  he  sat,  a 
huge,  old-fashioned  hardwood  chair,  and  struck  her  down, 
with  that  tremendous  oath.  Her  child  was  in  her  arms. 
It  gave  one  cry — no  more — as  mother  and  child  went 
crashing  down."  The  first  blow  had  fractured  its  skulL 
Twice  he  dashed  the  heavy  chair  upon  them  as  they  lay. 
Before  it  fell  the  third  time,  the  smashing  of  the  casement 
and  my  cry  for  help  reached  him.  He  dropped  the  chair, 
threw  open  an  opposite  window,  leaped  out  into  the  dark- 
ness and  disappeared." 

Willie  Allward  paused.  Cold  as  the  night  was,  great 
drops  stood  on  his  face  as  he  recalled  that  horrible  scene. 
He  tried  to  see  his  listener's  face,  as  it  gleamed  like  marble 
through  the  gloom. 

"  You  are  listening,  Magdalen  ?"  he  said,  chilled  by  her 
unnatural  quiet. 

*'  I  listen — go  on." 

"  My  shout  had  reached  a  policeman's  ear.  He  sprang 
his  rattle,  and  was  by  my  side  as  we  leaped  into  the  room. 
Child  and  mother  lay  weltering  in  blood— the  child  stone 
dead — its  brains  dashed  out;  the  mother  still  faintly 
breathing.  The  little  cottage  filled  as  if  by  magic— a 
dozen  men  started  in  pursuit  of  the  murderer,  but  he  had 
doubled  like  a  hare  in  the  darkness.  The  search  was 
fruitless. 

"  The  woman  could  speak.     She  clasped  her  dead  child 


312  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

to  her,  and  looked  np  at  me  as  I  stooped  and  whispered  the 
name  of  Maurice  Langley. 

"  '  He  has  done  this/  I  said  ;  '  denounce  him  before  it 
is  too  late. 

"  '  No,'  she  said,  or  rather  whispered  ;  '  I  will  never 
denounce  him  !  He  was  mad  with  rage  and  liquor — the 
fault  was  mine.     Let  him  go.     I  only  want  to  die.' 

"  She  fainted  clear  away  as  she  finished.  I  tell  you, 
Magdalen,  it  was  a  blood-curdling  sight — the  dead  child, 
the  dying  mother.  Many  there  knew  her — her  name,  they 
said,  was  Mrs.  Reed,  a  decent  sort  of  person,  who  went  out 
washing  for  herself  and  child.  She  liad  a  husband,  some- 
where, who  once  in  a  rare  while  came  to  see  her.  That 
was  all  that  was  known. 

*'  They  took  her  to  Bellevue  Hospital,  and  the  story  was 
in  the  papers,  and  search  was  made  for  the  murderer,  but 
all  in  vain.  They  did  not  even  know  his  name — it  was 
supposed  to  be  Reed.  I  called  the  next  day  at  the  hospital 
and  saw  the  nurse  who  had  care  of  Caroline.  She  was  still 
alive,  the  nurse  said,  but  sinking  fast.  I  gave  the  woman 
five  dollars,  and  asked  her  to  do  what  she  could  for  the 
unfortunate  patient.  I  wanted  to  see  her,  but  that  was 
refused.  1  never  went  again,  for  on  that  day  came  my  ar- 
rest, imprisonment,  trial  and  sentence,  and  four  years  at 
Sing  Sing. 

"  Why  did  I  not  denounce  Langley  then  and  tell  all  I 
knew  ?  Because  that  would  not  have  been  half  revenge  ! 
Langley  was  in  safe  hiding,  somewhere  ;  if  denounced,  he 
woutd  fly  the  country,  and,  perhaps,  escape  punishment  al- 
together. And  Burns,  who  would  have  proven  against  him, 
was  dead — had  been  stabbed  on  that  very  night  in  the  gam- 
bling hell,  in  a  brawl.  I  waited,  Magdalen — I  bided  my 
time.  '  I  will  serve  my  term  out,'  I  thought,  '  and  then 
for  you,  Mr.  Maurice  Langley  ! ' 

*'  Laura's  death  reached  me — it  was  only  another  item 
added  to  the  long  reckoning.  I  went  to  prison  and  served 
my  four  years — four  years  of  infinite,  endless  misery,  and 
came  out  to  find — what  ?  to  find  Maurice  Langley  a  happy 
and  prosperous  man,  and  my  sister  Magdalen  his  wife  ! 
No,  not  his  wife,  for  Caroline  Reed  lived,  and  lives,  and 
will  be  here  to-morrow." 

Once  more  there  was  a  pause.  Once  more  Magdalen's 
voice  broke  it,  hollowly,  out  of  the  darkness. 


TOLD  IN  THE  DARKNESS.  213 

"Go  on/'  she  said,  **  go  on  to  the  end.  The  wife  did 
not  die  ?  " 

**No,  she  did  not  die.  I  had  found  and  had  an  inter- 
view with  her  before  I  paid  you  that  visit  at  (Joldcn  Wil- 
lows. Had  I  known  then  that  Lanjfk'y's  name  was  Bar- 
stone,  and  his  home  in  this  State,  1  might  have  saved  you, 
but  it  was  only  within  the  past  two  weeks  that  Caroline 
Reed  told  me  her  story,  and  then  1  had  to  extort  it  from 
her  by  threats.  Slie  has  been  an  altered  woman  since  that 
fatal  night  ;  all  womanly  siiirit  seems  to  have  left  her — she 
is  but  the  poor,  pale,  frightened  sliadow  of  herself  now. 

"  I  hastened  to  the  liospital,  the  first  thing  after  my 
release,  and  inquired  for  Mrs.  Scott,  the  nurse  in  whose 
charge  Caroline  had  been  phiced.  Mrs.  Scott  still  retained 
her  situation,  and  came  to  me  at  once,  but  I  had  some 
difficulty  in  recalling  myself  to  her  recollection.  I  asked 
her  lor  Caroline  Reed — a  patient  who  had  been  in  her 
charge  four  years  back — could  she  recall  her  ?  Yes,  Mrs. 
8cott  recalled  her  perfectly. 

"  '  Did  she  live  or  die  ? '  I  asked. 

*'  'Well,  young  man,*  the  nurse  answered,  'one  of  'em 
lived,  and  one  of  'em  died,  and  1  don't  know  which  you 
want.  You  see  I  shouldn't  remember  so  easily,  for  four 
years  is  a  long  time,  but  my  own  name  is  Caroline,  and 
there  happened  to  be  two  Caroline  Reeds  here,  that  time, 
together.  One  was  a  shocking  accident,  the  otlier  was 
galloping  consumption.     AVliich  is  the  one  you  want  ?  " 

"  'The  accident,'  I  said,  eagerly  ;  'it  was  a  brutal  at- 
tempt at  murder.  Her  child  was  killed.  Do  not  tell  me 
she  is  the  one  who  died  !' 

"  '  No,'  said  the  nurse,  '  she's  the  one  that  came  round, 
though  nobody  ever  thought  she  could  come  round.  Her 
head  was  smashed  dreadful,  and  her  ribs  were  broke  ;  but 
la  !  she's  as  well  as  you  or  me  to-day,  and  a  most  respect- 
able party,  though  poor.  Slie  does  ])lain  sewing--she  sews 
for  me.     I'll  give  her  your  address  if  you're  a  friend.' 

"  She  wrote  the  address  in  pencil  and  handed  it  to  me. 

"'She  was  a  peculiar  young  woman,'  Mrs.  Scott  re- 
marked ;  '  never  would  tell  of  the  man  who  had  so  near 
killed  her — her  husband,  of  course,  the  brute  I  And  he's 
not  been  found.  There  did  come  a  man  here  one  day, 
about  six  months  after,  to  inquire  for  a  Caroline  Reed,  but 
I  didn't  see  him.     It  was  another  nurse — one  who  had 


214  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

charge  of  the  consumption  case — and  she  told  him  Caro- 
line Reed  was  dead  and  buried.  She  didn't  know  of  the 
other,  you  see,  and  I  make  no  doubt  it  was  Reed  himself.' 

"■  I  sought  out  Langley's  wife  at  once,  and  found  her, 
in  a  little  room  in  the  very  poorest  part  of  the  city,  half 
starved — not  able  to  earn  enough  to  keep  soul  and  body 
together.  She  looked  at  me  with  such  a  white,  terrified 
face  as  I  came  in,  that  I  had  to  hasten  to  reassure  her. 

"  '  Don't  be  alarmed,'  I  said,  '  I  am  a  friend.  Don't 
you  remember  me  ?  It  was  I  who  broke  in  that  night 
when  Langley  so  nearly  murdered  you.' 

"  She  uttered  a  cry,  and  covered  her  poor,  thin  face 
with  both  hands,  at  the  sound  of  his  name. 

"  'I  haven't  heard  it  for  four  years,'  she  said,  '  and  it 
makes  me  tremble  to  hear  it  now  !  Oh,  sir  !  for  the  love 
of  God  !  don't  tell  him  I  am  alive  ! ' 

"  *  I  will  not — don't  be  frightened — I  hate  him  as  much 
as  you  can  possibly  do  ! ' 

"  She  looked  up  at  me  with  great,  hollow,  wild  black 
eyes. 

"*Hate  him,'  she  repeated,  mournfully;  'oh,  no,  I 
don't  hate  him.  Once  I  loved  him,  and  he  loved  me,  but 
that  is,  oh,  such  a  weary,  weary  while  ago  !  I  think  that 
Caroline  Reed  is  dead  and  buried,  and  that  this  is  some 
other  miserable  wretch  who  bears  her  name  and  her  broken 
heart.     But  I  don't  hate  my  husband.' 

"  '  You  don't  hate  him,'  I  said,  incredulously,  '  and  he 
murdered  your  child  !' 

"  She  rocked  himself  to  and  fro,  in  hard,  tearless 
misery. 

"  '  He  did  not  mean  that — he  was  drunk — I  was  wicked 
and  taunted  him,  and  rage  and  brandy  drove  him  mad. 
The  fault  was  mine — he  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing. 
Oh,  my  baby  !  my  baby  !  my  baby  ! ' 

"  She  sobbed,  but  shed  no  tears.  She  still  rocked  cease- 
lessly to  and  fro,  with  sunken,  glittering,  dry  eyes. 

**  *  He  thinks  you're  dead,'  I  said.  '  You  have  never 
met  him  since  then  ?  " 

"  '  Yes,  I  have  met  him  ;  passed  him  so  closely  on  the 
street  that  my  rags  brushed  his  coat.  He  did  not  know 
me.  I  wore  a  veil,  but  he  would  not  have  known  me  in 
any  case.  See  sir  !  I  am  only  twenty-six  years  old,  but 
my  hair  is  gray,  and  my  face  is  fleshless   and   old.     Six 


TOLD  IN  THE  DARKNESS.  215 

years  ago,  when  he  married  me,  I  was  a  pretty  girl — yes, 
sir  !  Yon  may  not  believe  it,  but  I  was  a  pretty  girl.  1 
had  long  black  ringlets  down  to  my  waist,  bright,  black 
eyes — brighter  than  the  stars  of  heaven,  he  has  told  me — 
roses  and  dimples,  and  all  tlio  blooni  and  freshness  of 
happy  twenty  years.  And  I  loved  him,  ah,  so  dearly  !  so 
dearly  !  and  we  were  married ,  and  my  heaven  was  on  earth, 
and  no  angel  up  there  could  be  happier  than  I.  Do  you 
think  he  would  know  me  now  ?  He  is  a  gontleman — he 
is  young,  handsome  and  well  dressed  still.  Perhaps  he  is 
happy — I  don't  know.  He  killed  his  child,  and  he  thinks 
he  has  killed  me.  I  wonder,  if,  in  the  dead  of  night, 
when  his  rich  and  gay  friends  are  gone  and  the  stir  of  life 
is  hushed,  our  faces  do  not  rise  up  to  haunt  him  ?  1  won- 
der if  he  dare  sleep  in  the  dark  ?  Young  man,'  she  fixed 
her  spectral  black  eyes  solemnly  upon  me,  '  are  you  his 
friend  or  enemy  ? ' 

*' '  His  enemy!*      I  answered,  between  my  set  teeth, 

*  his  deadliest  enemy  on  earth  !  If  I  had  him  here  I  could 
throttle  him  as  I  would  a  serpent.  I  am  the  brother  of 
the  woman  he  did  to  death  ! ' 

*"The  woman  to  whom  I  wrote?  Ah,  poor  child! 
Tell  me  your  story  and  hers.' 

"  I  told  her  all — all,  Magdalen.  Laura's  death,  my 
imprisonment,  and  my  oath  of  revenge. 

"  '  I  call  upon  you  to  help  me,'  I  said,  '  it  is  our  right 
— it  is  not  revenge,  it  is  justice.  Such  monsters  should 
not  pollute  the  earth  !  I  call  upon  you,  Caroline  Reed,  to 
help  me  avenge  my  sister  ! ' 

*''I    will    help   you,'   she   answered,    to   my   surprise. 

*  What  is  it  you  want  ?  ' 

"  '  Tell  me  his  real  name — tell  me  where  and  how  I  may 
find  him.  Sooner  or  later  I  will  do  it  of  myself,  so  surely 
as  heaven  is  above  us  !  but  if  you  will  aid  me,  the  day  of 
reckoning  will  come  all  the  more  speedily." 

"  She  seemed  greatly  disturbed.  She  still  rocked  herself 
backward  and  forward,  with  knitted  anxious  brow. 

"  *  I  cannot  decide  now,'  she  said,  at  length  ;  '  give  me 
a  little  time  to  think  it  over.  Come  to  me  in  a  fortnight 
— not  sooner — my  head  is  all  wrong  at  times.  You  must 
give  me  a  fortnight,  at  least.  When  you  come  back  you 
will  find  me  here.     I  will  say  no  more  now.' 

"  We  parted.     I  sought  you  out  at  Golden  Willows, 


210  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

returned  Iw  IS  et^  York,  and  waited.  The  fortnight  passed. 
I  went  back  to  Mrs.  Reed,  but  she  was  still  undecided. 
She  asked  more  time,  and  I  had  to  be  contented  and  wait. 
Then  followed  your  marriage,  and  your  temporary  sojourn 
in  New  York.  The  third  time  I  went  to  Caroline  I  got 
what  I  wanted. 

'* '  I  am  not  sure  that  I  am  doing  right,  but  I  will  tell 
you.  Laugley's  name  is  Barstoxe,  and  he  has  a  rich 
aunt  in  Connecticut  somewhere.  I  found  it  out  by  the 
merest  accident,  and  it  was  my  mention  of  his  real  name 
that  so  enraged  him  that  dreadful  night.' 

"  Barstone  !  and  your  husband's  name  was  Barstone, 
and  he  had  a  rich  aunt  in  Connecticut.  It  startled  me 
terribly.  I  wrote  to  you  at  once.  You  met  me  and  made 
my  terror  a  certainty.  Maurice  Langley  had  crowned  his 
villainy  by  marrying  you.  He  knew  your  story — knew 
you  were  Laura's  sister — knew  you  were  vowed  to  avenge 
her — and  still  dared  to  marry  you  !  What  mercy  does 
that  man — no,  that  demon  in  the  form  of  man — deserve  ? 
When  he  and  you  left  for  Washington,  I  went  to  Caroline 
and  told  her  of  this  last  crowning  rascality.  It  aroused 
her  as  nothing  I  tliought  could  have  aroused  her. 

'"The  vile,  vile  wretch!'  she  cried.  'Another  lost 
and  ruined  through  his  baseness!  Take  me  to  him  !  I 
fear  him  no  more  !  Accuse  him  of  murder — I  will  aid 
you  !  Send  him  where  his  atrocious  wickedness  can  blight 
no  more  innocent  lives.  He  deserves  no  mercy,  and  we 
will  show  him  none  !  He  is  a  murderer  and  a  bigamist ! 
As  such,  let  the  law  of  the  land  deal  with  him.' 

"  1  have  no  more  to  say.     I  am  here.     Caroline  only 
waits  my  summons  to  follow.     To-morrow  she  will  come 
Before  another  sun  sets  the  wretch  you  have  married  wil 
pay  the  penalty  of  his  crimes,  and  Laura  Allward  will  b 
avenged  ' " 


"PAST  HOPE,  PAST  CARE,  PAST  HELP."    217 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"PAST  HOPE,  PAST  CARE,  PAST  HULP." 

The  tragic  story  was  finished — tlie  story  Willie  Allward 
had  come  so  far  to  tell — the  story  Magduleii  Allward  had 
braved  the  double  darkness  of  night  and  storm  to  hear. 
A  thrilling  pause  followed.  Wild  and  high  shrieked  the 
wintry  wind,  and  deep  and  hoarse  the  river  roared  rushing 
by.  The  listener  in  the  doorway  strained  every  nerve,  in 
vain,  to  overhear,  above  the  deep  diapason  of  the  tempest. 
He  could  not  catch  a  single  word. 

**  Yon  have  told  me  all  ?  "  the  hollow  voice  of  Magdalen 
said,  out  of  the  darkness;  "and  to-morrow  George  Bar- 
stone's  lawful  wife  will  be  liere  ?     Why  to-morrow  ?  " 

*'  Why  should  he  be  spared  beyond  to-morrow  ?  Why 
not  strike  liitn  at  once  ?  Why  not  to-morrow  as  well  as 
a  month  hence  ?  " 

"He  is  absent  from  Millford.  I  do  not  know  that  ho 
will  be  back  to-morrow.  But  he  may  be  ;  and  it  is  well 
to  be  ready.  Send  for  the  wife.  I  want  to  stand  face  to 
face  with  George  Barstone's  wife  before  the  end  of  all 
arrives." 

"You?" 

"I!  Before  the  end  of  this  miserable  story  comes,  I 
must  see  the  woman  who  is  what  I  should  bo,  0,  my 
God  !  to  think  that  I  should  sit  here  and  hear  such  horrors, 
and  live  ! " 

"  We  can  live  through  more  than  that."  Willie  Allward 
said,  cynically.  "It  is  only  in  novels  that  hearts  break 
and  people  die  of  trouble.  We  eat  and  sleep,  let  our  m  isery 
be  ever  so  great,  and  drag  out  existence  until  our  heads 
are  gray.  You  shall  see  Caroline,  if  you  wish  it,  and  hear 
her  story  from  her  own  lips,  if  you  like.  Perhaps  tu-mor- 
row  would  be  rather  premature,  even  if  he  does  return. 
You  shall  fix  the  time,  if  you  wish," 

There  was  no  answer.  Magdalen  sat,  rigid,  with  white 
face  and  dilated  eyes. 

"  I  cannot  believe  it !  I  cannot  believe  it !  "  she  said, 
slowly,   in  a  strange,   dull   voice.     "  George   Barstone  a 


218  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

murderer  ?  It  cannot  be  !  it  is  impossible  !  There  is  a 
terrible  mistake  somewhere.  I  tell  you,  Willie  Allward, 
there  is  a  frightful  mistake — we  are  all  wrong — George 
Barstone  is  not  the  man  we  take  him  to  be  !  " 

She  arose  to  her  feet  with  a  sudden  flash  of  inspiration 
— a  swift,  prophetic  conviction  of  the  truth. 

*'  It  cannot  be,  I  repeat !  We  are  all  wrong,  Willie. 
There  is  a  dreadful  mistake  !  George  Barstone  is  one  of 
the  noblest,  the  gentlest  of  men.  You  paint  a  devil. 
We  are  '  far  wide,'  from  first  to  last.  I  tell  you,  Maurice 
Langley  and  George  Bai-stone  are  not  one  and  the  same 
man  ! " 

Her  voice  rose,  her  eyes  flashed,  the  color  came  back  to 
her  cold  face,  as  she  stood  there  erect  in  the  darkness. 

Her  brother  listened  contemptuously. 

"  There  is  no  mistake,"  he  said,  resolutely.  "  I  wish 
there  was,  for  your  sake.  Maurice  Langley  and  George 
Barstone  are  the  same  man.  Think  of  the  j^roofs  !  Eachel 
recognized  him — I  recognized  him.  There  is  the  unerring 
mark  upon  his  arm — the  secret  in  his  life.  Do  you  ask 
any  more  than  that  ?  " 

She  put  both  hands,  in  a  blind  sort  of  way,  to  her  head 
— dizzy,  benumbed. 

"  You»shall  have  more,"  Willie  said,  answering  his  own 
question  ;  "and  I  will  postpone  the  denouement  until 
you  are  fully  satisfied.  You  expect  Barstone  home  to- 
morrow ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Then,  here,  take  this.  It  is  Caroline  Reed's  picture 
— a  living  likeness.  Place  this  where  it  will  meet  his  eyes, 
and  watch  him  well  when  he  first  sees  it.  If  he  shows  no 
guilt  or  surprise,  then  we  will  have  Caroline  down  to  look 
at  him  on  the  quiet.  Will  that  satisfy  you  ?  If  this  last 
crucial  test  fails,  why,  then — why,  then,  I  will  own  there 
is  a  mistake,  and  begin  at  the  beginning  again.  And  now 
I  think  you  had  better  start  for  home,  or  you  will  have 
them  scouring  the  town  after  you.  Come,  rouse  up  ! 
Take  my  arm.  I  will  see  you  safely  through  the  storm  to 
the  house." 

She  obeyed  him  mechanically,  her  hand  closing  hard 
over  the  picture  he  had  given  her.  She  was  so  stunned 
by  long  suffering  tliat  the  horrors  of  this  night  only  be- 
numbed her.     Her  soul  was  full  of  a  dull  despair,  and 


"  PAST  HOPE,  PAST  CARE,  PAST  HELP."    219 

she  moved  blindly  forward,  like  a  woman  walking  in  her 
sleep. 

The  watcher  on  the  threshold,  wlio  liad  not  caught  one 
word  of  their  conversation,  lieard  lliein  as  thoy  stumbled 
forward,  and  saw  tlie  moving  spark  as  the  lantern  ad- 
vanced. He  drew  closer  intotiie  embrasures  of  the  wood- 
work, and  Magdalen's  garments  bruslied  him  as  she  passed 
from  tlie  ruined  entrance  of  the  old  mill  out  into  tiie 
stormy  night. 

When  they  reached  tlie  road  Willie  extinguished  liis 
lantern  and  they  plunged  forward  through  the  wild,  white 
drifts.  The  snow  still  fell,  but  the  wind  had  gone  down  ; 
the  roads  were  ankle-deep  already. 

"  We  are  likely  to  have  a  pleasant  walk  of  it,"  Willie 
muttered.  "  Cling  to  mc,  Magdalen,  or  you  will  fall. 
What  will  they  think  of  yon  at  Golden  Willows  ?" 

"■  What  does  it  matter,'"'  was  the  weary  answer,  "since, 
in  a  few  days,  I  will  have  left  them  forever  ?  Let  them 
think  what  they  please — they  will  soon  know  all." 

*'  I  shall  keep  quiet  until  I  hear  from  you  again,"  her 
brother  said  ;  '•  that  will  be  immediately  after  lie  lias  seen 
the  portrait.  In  any  case,  I  shall  then  send  for  Caroline. 
If  he  be  her  husband,  she  will  make  no  mistake,  whatever 
we  do." 

They  went  on  in  silence  after  this,  as  much  as  they 
could  do  to  make  headway  at  all  through  the  snow.  Some 
yards  further  on,  a  man  went  by  them,  and  gave  them  a 
gruff  "  good-night,"  in  passing.  'I'he  man  was  Philip 
Barstone,  who  could  pass  and  speak  with  impunity,  in  the 
deep  darkness.  His  long  strides  measured  off  the  ground 
with  double  the  swiftness  of  those  he  left  behind  in  the 
storm.  A  vague  alarm  tilled  him.  What  could  they 
mean  ?  What  did  this  strange  meeting  portend  ?  If  he 
only  could  have  heard  ! 

The  lights  from  the  drawing  and  dining-room  windows 
streamed  far  over  the  snow  as  (lolden  Willows  came  in 
view — the  double  lights  of  fire  and  lamp.  The  blinds 
were  up,  the  curtains  drawn.  He  could  see  the  brightly 
glowing  rooms,  the  tal)le  glittering  with  china  and  glass 
and  silver,  and  the  restless  llgure  of  Fanny  roaming  about. 

He  opened  the  hall  door  and  stood  before  that  young 
lady,  a  walking  Arctic  avalanche — snow  from  head  to 
feet. 


220  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

Miss  Winters  gave  a  little  shriek  at  sight  of  him,  and 
held  up  her  flowing  robes. 

"  Lor',  Phil  !  I  thought  you  were  a  burglar  !  Where 
on  earth  have  you  been  ?  and  oh  !  for  gracious'  sake, 
where  is  Magdalen  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Barstone  will  be  here  in  fifteen  minutes.  Where 
have  I  been  ?  Do  you  know  the  old  mill  by  the  river, 
near  the  town  ?    I  have  been  there." 

"  And  what  on  earth  took  you  there  ? — not  Magdalen  ?  '* 

''Magdalen,  most  certainly  !  She  mustn't  know  I  fol- 
lowed her,  though.  She  wouldn't  like  it,  I  dare  say. 
She  went  there  to  keep  an  appointment." 

"  An  appointment !     Oh,  Phil !     With  a  man  ?  " 

"  With  a  man,  most  decidedly  !  lie  is  escorting  her 
home  at  this  present  moment.  He  was  waiting  for  her  at 
the  old  mill,  and  he  had  a  lantern  there — all  prepared, 
you  see  ;  and  she  sat  talking  to  him  one  good  hour.  It's 
very  mysterious  ;  and,  if  I  were  George,  I  think  I  should 
put  a  stop  to  it.  Mind  !  not  a  hint  that  I  was  a  '  looker 
on  in  Venice.'" 

"  But,  oh,  Phil  !"  Fanny  gasped,  "  what  can  it  mean  ? 
And  to  meet  a  man  !  and  on  such  a  night  !  Oh,  Phil  ! 
it  must  be  the  same  man  she  met  that  night,  and  kissed, 
in  the  garden." 

"  What  night  ?  " 

Doctor  Philip  had  removed  his  snow-covered  overcoat, 
stamped  the  snow  off  his  boots,  and  led  the  way  into  the 
dining-room,  followed  by  Fanny. 

"  I  haven't  had  a  mouthful  of  dinner  yet,"  the  young 
lady  said,  glancing  at  the  table,  "  except  some  sand- 
wiches and  pound-cake  she  gave  me.  I  know  everything 
will  be  spoiled." 

"  Tell  me  about  that  night  you  spoke  of.  Fan,  and  the 
man  she  kissed  in  the  garden." 

Fanny  repeated  the  tale  she  had  told  Aunt  Lydia. 
When  she  had  concluded,  the  house-door  opened  for  the 
second  time,  and  Magdalen,  pale  as  death  itself,  and 
covered  with  snow,  stood  before  them. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Barstone,"  the  doctor  said,  starting  up, 
*'you  are  perished.  Why  in  the  world  did  you  persist  in 
going  out  such  a  night  ?  Take  off  your  wet  clothes  and 
come  to  tlie  fire  immediately.  You  may  have  caught  your 
death." 


"PAST  HOPE,  PAST  CARE,  PAST  HELP."    251 

Fanny  gave  him  a  look  of  admiration.  Here  was  clever 
acting.     But  his  cousin's  wife  declined  his  friendly  offer. 

"  I  will  go  to  my  room/' she  said,  turning  away,  **  there 
is  a  fire  there,     (rood  night." 

"  But,  good  gracious,  Magdalen,  you-  must  have  your 
dinner.  Don't  you  know  it's  nearly  eight  o'clock.  You 
must  be  going  crazy,  I  think,  to  go  out  such  a  dreadful 
night.     Where  on  eartli  have  you  been  ?  " 

But  Magdalen  was  already  up  the  stairs,  heedless  of 
Fanny's  cry. 

"  Do  not  wait  for  me,"  she  said.  "  I  want  no  dinner. 
Good  night." 

She  disappeared  with  the  words  into  her  own  room,  and 
turned  the  key  in  the  door.  Fanny  might  officiously  in- 
trude presently,  and  P'anny's  chatter  to-night  she  felt 
would  drive  her  mad. 

Her  pretty  rooms  looked  prettier  and  brighter  than 
ever,  by  vivid  contrast  with  the  wild,  drifting  tempest 
without.  The  fires  burned  redly,  the  yellow  lamp-light 
flooded  the  chambers,  and  a  low,  soft-cushioned  chair,  a 
footstool  and  slippers  were  in  order  before  the  steel  grate. 

She  dropped  off  her  snow-covered  garments  in  a  heap 
on  the  carpet  and  sank  down  in  this  cliair,  her  hands  folded 
in  her  lap,  her  eyes  staring  with  blank  intensity  into  the 
red  heart  of  the  cinders. 

What  horrors  she  had  listened  to  this  night  !  George 
not  lier  husband — George  the  murderer  of  his  own  child, 
the  would-be  assassin  of  his  wife  !  Everything  swam  be- 
fore her  eyes  in  a  hot  mist.  There  was  a  dull,  throbbing 
pain  in  her  head  that  benumbed  her  and  left  her  no  power 
to  think.  George  a  murderer  !  George's  wife  alive  ! 
Those  two  ideas  kept  boating,  beating  in  that  hot  brain. 
She  had  lost  all  control  of  her  own  mind — it  worketl  on 
and  on  like  a  machine. 

Hours  passed  while  she  sat  there — she  never  heeded 
their  flight.  She  still  held  thcTiiiniature  tightly  clenched 
in  her  hand,  unconscious  that  she  held  it.  Its  dropping 
upon  the  floor  drew  her  attention  to  it  at  last.  She  picked 
it  up,  opened  it  mechanically,  and  gazed  long  and  stead- 
fastly upon  the  pictured  face. 

It  was  an  old-fashioned  ambrotype,  in  a  case,  but  un- 
dimmed  by  time,  and  soft  and  clear  as  an  engraving.  The 
face  within  was  very  young,  very  pretty  ;  a  bright,  bra- 


222  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

nette  face,  with  black  hair  rippling-  off  a  low  forehead, 
smiling,  dimpled  lips,  and  large  luminous  eyes.  The 
pretty,  heedless  face  of  a  girl  of  sixteen,  untouched  by 
sorrow  andunmarred  by  earthly  passion. 

Magdalen  gazed  at  it  long — then  slowly  closed  and  put 
it  in  her  pocket.  A  great  sense  of  weariness  was  stealing 
over  her — the  fatigue  of  her  long  walk,  the  reaction  of  so 
much  excitement,  were  beginning  to  make  themselves 
felt.  Sitting  there  in  her  chair  before  the  fire,  her  head 
dropped,  her  troubles  ended  in  a  merciful  oblivion.  She 
fell  heavily  asleep.  She  slept  for  many  hours — deeply, 
dreamlessly — and  opened  her  eyes  to  find  the  fire  long 
dead,  the  room  chill,  and  flooded  with  pale  February  sun- 
shine. She  looked  at  her  watch — it  was  past  ten — she  had 
slept  nine  hours.  That  long  deathlike  sleep  had  changed 
her  strangely.  The  dull,  throbbing  torture  of  head  and 
heart  were  gone,  and  a  great  calm  had  taken  their  place. 
It  was  the  calm  that  comes  with  supreme  despair  ;  but  its 
deep  weariness  left  her  power  to  think,  and  blunted  the 
edge  of  her  anguish.  Memory  brought  back,  word  for 
word,  Willie's  terrible  story  of  last  night,  and  she  no 
longer  doubted  its  truth.  She  was  no  wife — she  was  the 
most  lost  and  wretched  of  women  ;  and  George  Barstone 
was  the  vilest  of  all  vile  scoundrels.  She  took  the  ambro- 
type  out  of  her  pocket,  half  opened  it,  shrank  from  it  as 
though  it  had  been  a  viper,  and  replaced  it  with  a  sick 
shudder. 

"  If  I  cannot  bear  to  look  upon  the  pictured  face,  how 
will  I  look  upon  the  living  one,"  she  thought.  "  And 
to-morrow  I  will  see  her  !  To-day  George  will  be  here  ! 
I  will  show  him  this,  aiid  then — and  then  the  sooner  the 
end  comes  and  all  is  over,  the  better." 

There  was  a  sharp  rap  at  the  door,  and  Fanny's  impatient 
voice  spoke  without  : 

"  Magdalen  !  Magdalen  !  are  you  dead  ?  Please  say  so, 
if  you  are,  and  Phil  will  break  open  the  door.  If  alive, 
unlock  it  and  let  me  in." 

Magdalen  arose  at  once  and  turned  the  key,  and  Fanny 
bounced  impetuously  in. 

"  This  makes  the  fourth  time  I've  come  rapping.  I 
thought  I  would  succeed  at  last.  Why.  goodness  me, 
Magdalen  Barstone,  you've  never  been  to  bed  at 
all  !" 


"PAST  HOPE,  PAST  CARE,  PAST  HELP."    223 

"No,"  Magdalen  said,  quietly.  "  I  was  tired  and  fell 
asleep  before  1  knew  it,  in  my  chair." 

''  And  you  look  like  a  ghost — worse  than  any  ghost  I 
ever  saw.  And  you've  had  no  dinner,  and  no  tea,  and  no 
breakfast.  I  wonder  wliat  (leorge  will  say  to  your  ghastly 
looks  when  he  comes  home,  and  he's  coming  home  this 
very  morning  ?  " 

"  This  morning  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  we've  had  a  despatch  ;  he  is  coming  in  the  12.30 
train.  So,  if  you  liavc  any  regard  for  his  feeling,  and  you 
used  to  have,  goodness  knows,  just  wash  yonr  face  and 
comb  your  hair,  and  put  on  one  of  your  pretty  morning 
dresses,  and  come  down  and  have  breakfast,  and  try  not  to 
look  quite  so  much  like  a  galvanized  corpse  when  he  sees 
you." 

Magdalen  arose  with  strange  calmness,  and  began  to 
obey.  She  bathed  her  cold  face,  and  loosened  her  abun- 
dant golden  tresses.  Fanny  took  the  seat  slie  had  just 
vacated,  determined,  to  have  it  out,  there  and  then. 

"  Magdalen,  look  here  !  What  is  the  matter  with  yon 
ever  since  vou  came  home  ?  What  has  George  done  that 
you  snub  hmi  so  dreadfully  ?  You  used  to  be  fond  of  him  ; 
I  think,  though  you  were  never  the  kind  to  show  it  much, 
but  I  could  see  it  in  your  eyes  when  you  looked  at  him, 
and  in  your  smile  when  you  smiled  on  him,  and  in  your 
voice  when  you  spoke  to  him.  But  it's  all  different  now. 
Now  you  never  look  at  him  at  all  ;  you  never  speak  to  him, 
if  you  can  help  it ;  you  never  smile.  You  look  like  one  of 
the  statues  in  the  Marble  Heart.  It's  romantic,  but  it's 
uncomfortable.  Is  there  a  secret,  Magdalen  ?  Oh,  do 
tell  me— do — I'll  never  mention  it,  not  even  to  Piiil — 


never,  never 


\  " 


Yesterday,  and  all  the  days  preceding,  Magdalen  could 
not  have  endured  this.  To-day  she  listened  in  a  dfcill  sort 
of  lassitude,  without  a  trace  of  anger  or  impatience.  She 
caught  somehow  at  the  last  word. 

'*  Phil  !  "  she  repeated.     ''  What  has  he  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing,  of  course— that  is,  with  you— only  he 
feels  uneasy,  like  the  rest  of  us.  But  he  has  a  great  deal 
to  do  with  me.     We're  engaged." 

"  Engaged  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  dear— to  be  married,"  answered  Fanny,  with 
a  sparkling  face.     "  We've  been  engaged  for  the  past  teu 


224  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

days ;  bnt  you've  been  so  dreadfully  melancholy  and 
stupid,  there  was  no  telling  you.  We're  engaged,  and  oh, 
Magdalen,  I  am  so  happy  I  feel  almost  crazy  !  I  can't  re- 
alize it  at  times.  I  idolize  him.  I  love  him  beyond  every- 
thing !  And  he's  so  gentlemanly  and  so  agreeable,  and 
he  knows  so  much,  and  he's  so  handsome.  Isn't  he  hand- 
some, Magdalen,  and  don't  you  adore  pale  young  men, 
with  dark  eyes  and  hair,  and  white  teeth,  and  a  black 
mustache.  Phil's  isn't  black  just  now  ;  but  he  used  to 
dye  it,  and  then  it  was.  I  shall  have  him  dye  it  again 
when  we're  married. '* 

**  Married  !  "  Magdalen  again  repeated.  ''Has  it  come 
to  that  ?    Does  Miss  Barstone  know  ?  " 

She  forgot  her  own  great  sorrow  for  the  moment,  in  her 
affection  for  this  little  girl,  whose  round,  rosy  face  glowed 
before  her,  almost  beautified  with  the  delight  of  love's 
young  dream. 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  knows,  of  course,"  Fanny  replied.  *' And 
■would  you  believe  it,  Magdalen  ?  she  didn't  like  it  a  bit. 
Now  wasn't  that  heartless  ?  and  her  own  nejihew,  too  ? 
George  married  you,  and  see  how  pleased  she  was ;  but 
then,  George  Avas  always  her  favorite.  I  don't  see  what 
sort  of  tastes  some  people  have,  for  my  part,  and  I  can't 
help  saying  it,  if  you  are  his  wife.  George  is  a  very  good 
fellow  enough,  I  dare  say,  for  people  who  like  that  style  ; 
but  it  ain't  my  style,  and  they're  no  more  to  be  compared 
than  the  moon's  to  be  compared  to  a  mouldy  cheese. 
We're  going  to  be  married  in  a  month,  and  sail  for  Europe 
at  once.  Oh  !  Magdalen  !  Only  think  of  seeing  Pans, 
and  London,  and  Venice,  and  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  and 
prisons  and  palaces,  and  the  empress  and  the  Tower  of 
Pisa,  and  gondolas  and  real  brigands,  and  things  !  Mag- 
dalen, it's  so  splendid,  I  don't  believe  it  can  ever  come 
true." 

Miss  Winters  opened  her  eyes  very  wide,  and  her 
chubby  face  grew  all  at  once  grave  and  solemn,  as  she  made 
this  last  remark. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,"  Magdalen  said,  *'  take  care  !  take  care  ! 
Are  you  sure  he  loves  you,  or  is  it  only — "  she  paused. 

"  My  sixty  thousand  dollars  !  "  cried  out  the  heiress,  in- 
dignantly. "  There  it  is  again  !  Everybody  throws  my 
sixty  thousand  dollars  in  my  face.  Of  course  he  loves  me, 
and  of  course,  he  couldn't  marry  me  if  I  didn't  have  tht 


"PAST  HOPE,  PAST  CARE    PAST  HELP."    225 

sixty  thousand  dollirs.  You  see  he  is  poor,  and  he  loved 
me  so  well.  He  never  dared  come  here  because  ho  was 
afraid  I  would  find  out  his  love,  and  he  would  not  ask  me 
to  marry  him,  and  share  his  humble  lot.  And  he  meant 
to  have  lived  single  all  his  life,  Magdalen — all  liis  life — 
for  my  sake  and  on  his  death-bed  he  would  have  to  send 
for  me,  and  with  his  dying  breath  tell  mc  all.  I  would 
have  been  married  to  somebody  else,  but  in  sjiito  of  ten 
thousand  husbands  he  would  have  had  mc  at  his  dying 
bed,  and  told  me  then  how  all  his  life  he  had  worshipped 
me  !  Oh,  Magdalen  !  You  ought  to  hear  him  go  on  ! 
It's  twice  as  beautiful  as  any  novel  I  e\'er  read  ! " 

A  faint,  cold  shadow  of  a  smile  flitted  over  the  listener's 
face — a  smile  of  utter  scorn — but  Fanny  did  not  see  it. 
She  did  not  speak,  and  the  girl  kept  on  : 

"The  things  I  tried  to  show  you  yesterday  were  the 
first  of  my  wedding  clothes,  and  you  would  not  even  look 
at  them.  I  shouldn't  have  thought  it  of  you,  Magdalen, 
— after  the  interest  I  took  in  your  wedding  things,  too  I  " 

'*  I  had  other  matters  to  think  of." 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say  !  Y'ou've  done  nothing  else  but  think 
ever  since  your  bridal  tour.  What  is  it  all  about  ?  And 
oh,  Magdalen  !  where  were  you  last  night,  in  tlie  storm." 

'*I  have  told  you — out  for  a  walk.'' 

"  Oh,  bother  !  Out  for  a  walk  on  such  a  night !  I  don't 
believe  it ! " 

**  Disbelieve  it,  then.  I  am  going  down  to  breakfast, 
now." 

Fanny  followed. 

Mrs.  Barstone's  morning  meal  awaited  her,  and  she  ate 
it  in  silence. 

Doctor  Phil  was  smoking  a  cigar  in  the  frosty  sunshine, 
and  his  happy  little  bride-elect  ran  out  and  joined  him. 
She  thrust  her  arm  in  his,  and  walked  and  chattered  by 
his  side,  her  eyes  upraised  to  his  face  with  a  love  that 
strove  for  no  concealment. 

"Another,"  Magdalen  thought,  "another  to  be  made 
miserable.  He  is  marrying  her  for  her  money,  and  he  will 
break  her  heart  with  his  coldness  and  dislike.  Poor 
child  !  she  deserves  a  better  fate  !  " 

She  ate  little,  but  she  drank  the  strong  coflfee  eagerly. 
It  nerved  her  for  what  was  to  come,  and  for  the  meeting 
with  her  husband,  now  so  near. 


226  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

It  was  past  eleven  when  she  arose  and  went  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. The  piano  stood  open,  and,  obeying  an  impulse, 
she  sat  down  and  began  to  play.  She  strove  to  banish 
thought — to  forget  for  one  brief  hour  at  least.  She  might 
never  sit  here  and  touch  those  white  keys  again.  It  was  a 
new  and  very  fine  piano — one  of  George's  many  weddint 
gifts.  Ah,  how  good  he  had  been  always  to  her,  and  ho'R 
happy  she  had  been  here  !  Tears  rose  to  her  eyes  for  the 
first  time  ;  a  quiet  sadness  filled  her  heart.  She  had  an 
unutterable  horror  of  his  crimes  but  for  him  she  felt 
nothing  now  but  a  great  compassion.  She  played  softly 
on — mournful  melodies  from  Slozart — and  the  lovers  out- 
side paused  in  their  talk  to  listen  to  the  weird  sweetness. 
She  played  on  until  the  merry  jingle  of  sleigh-bells  reached 
her  ear.  The  bells  approached,  turned  in  at  the  gate. 
She  arose  and  looked  out.     Yes,  George  had  come  ! 

Her  heart  gave  one  great  tfhrob  and  then  stood  still. 
An  instant  later  and  he  had  strode  in,  his  face  glowing, 
his  eyes  sparkling. 

"  My  darling  !  "  he  said,  "  here  I  am,  back  again,  and 
never  in  my  life  was  I  so  glad  to  get  home.  I  saw  you  at 
the  window,  and  never  waited  to  answer  Fanny  or  Phil." 

He  folded  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  after  his  own 
impetuous  fashion.  She  made  no  resistance.  She  stood 
white  and  still. 

"  What,  Magdalen  !  "  he  said,  reproachfully.  "  No  word 
of  welcome,  and  I  have  thought  every  hour  a  month  that 
held  me  from  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come  back,  George,"  she  said, 
slowly.     "  1  have  been  wishing  for  your  return,  too." 

"  That's  my  good  little  wife  !  Hallo,  Fan  !  Come  in 
here,  and  get  me  something  to  eat.  I've  had  nothing 
since  six  this  morning,  and  the  commissariat  is  always  i? 
your  way.  I'll  run  up  and  take  off  these  things.  Have  i 
ready  when  I  come  down." 

He  dashed  up  the  stairs.  Fanny  gave  the  necessary 
order,  and  went  out,  and  rejoined  her  Phil.  One  of  the 
housemaids  came  along  the  hall  in  a  very  few  minutes, 
bearing  a  tray  with  a  delicate  luncheon,  and  laid  it  out  in 
the  dining-room.  She  had  everything  arranged,  and  had 
quitted  the  apartment,  ere  George  descended. 

The  instant  she  quitted  the  dining-room,  Magdalen 
slipped  in,  laid  the  ambrotype  beside  his  coffee  cup,  and 


«  PAST  HOPE,  PAST  CARE,  PAST  HELP."    227 

disappeared  behind  the  long,  green  window-curtains.     Slie 
would  see  George  plainly,  but  he  would  not  see  iier. 

Mr.  Barstoue  made  aii  expeditious  toilet,  and  clattered 
down-stairs,  whistling  a  jig.  He  was  on  the  iieights  of 
bliss  once  more.  Hail  not  the  wife  he  .worshiped  toUl  him 
she  was  glad  he  was  home?  He  looked  in  the  drawing- 
room  ;  slie  was  not  there.  He  entered  the  dining-room  : 
she  was  7iot  to  be  seen.      He  called  ;  there  was  no  reply. 

"Odd!"  thought  George,  a  trifle  disappointed. 
"  Where's  she  gone  to  ?  Where's  Mrs.  Barstoue, 
Susan  ?  " 

This  to  the  girl  who  entered  to  wait  upon  him. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  sir  "  Susan  responded,  pour- 
ing out  his  coffee  and  adjusting  tiie  plates.  "Anytliiug 
else  ?  " 

"  That  will  do,  Susan.  Ha  !  what's  this  ?  something 
to  eat  ?  " 

He  took  up  the  ambrotype  carelessly  enough,  and  opened 
it.  The  instant  after,  he  rose  to  iiis  feet,  with  a  startled 
exclamation.  Magdalen  turned  cold  as  death.  He  stood 
holding  the  case  "from  him,  and  gazing  at  it  much  as  if 
that  young,  fair  face  had  been  a  death's  head.  A  second 
or  two  he  stood  ;  then  he  closed  it  sharply,  and  strode  at 
once  out  of  the  room. 

Magdalen  leaned  heavily  against  the  window,  sick  and 
faint  unto  death.  There  was  no  mistake  then — he  recog- 
nized, beyond  all  doubt,  the  picture  of  Caroline  Reed. 
She  glided  out  from  her  hiding-place  aiul  encountered 
Fanny  entering  the  hall. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  your  husband,  Mrs.  Bar- 
stone  ? "  the  heiress  demanded,  with  some  asperity. 
"What  is  he  in  such  a  flurry  about,  and  what  does  he 
want  of  Phil  ?  Ordering  me  into  the  liouse  after  such  an 
imperative  fashion  !  I  should  not  have  stirred  a  step 
only  Pliil  seconded  it !     What's  the  matter  ?  " 

Magdalen  made  no  reply.  She  went  straight  to  her 
room,  and,  without  an  instant's  delay,  sat  down  and  wrote 
to  Willie  : 

**  He  has  returned — seen  the  picture,  and  recognized  it. 
There  is  no  longer  room  to  doubt.  Send  for  C.  R.  as  soon 
as  you  like  now,  and  let  the  end  come  as  speedily  as  yoa 
plea.se,  "  Magdalen/* 


228  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

She  sealed  this  note,  dressed  for  a  walk,  glided  down- 
stairs and  ont  of  the  house.  No  one  saw  her.  Her  hus- 
band and  his  cousin  were  in  tlie  Willow  Wali£,  and  Fanny 
was  flattening  her  little  pug  nose  against  a  side  window, 
watcliing  them. 

What  they  would  think  of  this  sudden  flight,  the  first 
moment  of  George's  arrival,  she  never  paused  to  consider. 
What  did  appearances  matter  now  ? 

And  in  the  Willow  Walk  the  two  men  stood  talking  with 
strangely  startled  faces.  It  was  Doctor  Phil  who  held  the 
ambrotype  now,  and  that  dull,  grayish  pallor  had  blanched 
his  face  from  brow  to  chin. 

"  Found  it,  George,  on  the  dining-room  table,"  he  was 
repeating,  in  a  sort  of  whisper  ;  "  her  picture  !  How,  in 
God's  name,  could  her  picture  have  got  into  this  house  ?'* 

"Don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  responded  George,  who  looked 
by  no  means  so  horrified  as  his  cousin  ;  "let's  ask," 

"Ask  !"  Philip  Barstone  repeated,  looking  at  him  in  a 
sort  of  horror.  "Are  you  mad?  I  mean" — hastily — 
"  would  you  set  inquiries  on  foot,  and  let  Fanny  know  the 
truth  ?  No,  no,  no  !  Besides,  I  fancy  I  see  through  the 
mystery." 

"  You  do  ?  Well,  hang  me,  if  I  can  !  Who  the  deuce 
was  likely  to  fetch  Caroline's  picture  here  ?  " 

"  Hush-h-h  !  "  the  doctor's  face  turned  quite  livid  at  the 
sound  of  the  name.  "  I  will  tell  you  later — give  me 
time  to  think.     Where's  your  wife  ? ' 

"  My'  wife  !     What's  my  wife  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"  A  great  deal.  It's  my  belief  she  has  placed  it  there. 
If  she  isn't  in  the  house  she's  gone  to  Millford  again  to 
meet  that  man." 

"  What  man  ?  " 

"  Johnstone,  George,  old  boy,  I've  a  long  and  very  dis- 
agreeable story  to  tell  you.  Fanny  knows — Aunt  Lydia 
knows — give  me  a  moment  here  alone,  and  I  will  join 
you  in  the  house  and  tell  you  all." 

He  walked  away.  George  returned  slowly  to  the  house. 
The  moment  he  was  out  of  sight,  Philip  Barstone,  who 
had  walked  to  the  bank,  hurled  the  aml)rotype,  with  all 
his  force,  far  into  the  frozen  lake  below.  He  saw  it 
shivered  there  in  a  dozen  pieces. 

"'  She  knows  all,"  he  thought,  "  and  she  still  believes  it 
George.  Good  God  !  if  the  truth  comes  out,  after  all 
these  years,  and  by  means  of  Laura  Allward's  sister  1 " 


*'l  BELIEVE  DESDEMOXA'S  UONEST."      229 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 
"I'll  not  believe  but  desdemona's  honest." 

George  Barstone  strode  up  and  down  the  drawing- 
room,  with  a  very  pale  and  startled  face,  listening  to  the 
story  his  cousin  had  to  tell.  He  heard,  in  blank  dismay, 
of  that  long  walk,  through  night  ami  storm,  to  the  old 
mill  by  the  river,  and  of  tiie  suspicious  interview  held 
there. 

''  The  man  was  the  same  I  saw  her  with  in  New  York," 
Philip  said.  "  I  had  a  glimpse  of  him  by  the  light  of  the 
lantern.  It  was  Johnstone,  of  course,  and  the  letter  she 
received,  the  night  you  left,  must  have  been  to  appoint 
the  meeting.  It  is  my  belief  she  has  gone  into  Millford 
now,  to  meet  him  again.'' 

For  ^lagdalen  was  not  to  be  found,  and  one  of  the  serv- 
ants informed  them  she  had  seen  Mrs.  Barstone  quit  the 
house,  attired  for  a  walk,  over  fifteen  miiiutes  before, 

'^  You  say  you  were  at  the  door  during  the  interview," 
George  said,  at  length  :  "  Tell  me  what  you  saw  and 
heard." 

"  I  neither  saw  nor  heard — the  place  was  pitchy  dark, 
and  the  uproar  of  the  storm  was  deafening.  The  inter- 
view lasted  over  an  hour,  and  he  accompanied  her  back  to 
the  house.  I  passed  them  on  the  roiwl,  unknown,  under 
cover  of  the  storm  and  darkness.  George,  it  is  no  com- 
mon motive  that  would  take  any  woman  three  miles  from 
home  on  such  a  night,  and  to  keep  such  an  appointment." 

"  What  do  you  suspect  ?"  George  asked,  very  coldly. 

''  I  should  suspect,  as  Fanny  does,  that  it  was  some  old 
sweetheart,  by  Jove  I  We  don't  need  all  this  mystery  and 
secrecy  to  meet  our  poor  relations." 

*'  Fanny  !     What  does  Funny  know  of  this  matter  ?" 

"  Oh,  by  the  bye,  I  had  "forgotten."  the  doctor  ex- 
claimed, "  she  never  told  you  of  what  she  saw,  one  night, 
some  two  months  ago — before  you  were  married  !  " 

"  No  ;  what  did  she  see  ?  " 

"  It  was  during  Aunt  Lydia's  illness.  You  were  dining 
alone,  she  was  up  in  her  own  room,  and  Miss  Wayne,  who 
had  been  watching  in  the  sick  room,  went  out  in  the  garden 


230  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

for  a  walk.  It  was  a  clear  moonlight  night,  and  Fanny's 
window  overlooks  the  Willow  Walk.  lu  the  Willow  Walk 
she  saw  Magdalen  meet  a  man — a  little  man  with  a  cap, 
she  describes  him — and  Miss  Wayne  flew  into  his  arms, 
and  kissed  him  again  and  again.  They  had  a  long  inter- 
view, and  when  Miss  Wayne  returned  to  the  lioiiseshe  was 
as  white  as  a  sheet.  She  went  straight  to  her  room,  and 
never  spoke  of  the  meeting  after.  Fanny  felt  delicate 
about  alluding  to  it  ;  she  took  it  for  granted  Magdalen 
had  told  you,  and  that  it  must  be  all  right." 

"  Magdalen  did  not  tell  me  ;  nevertheless,  it  must  be 
all  right.  It  was  her  cousin,  most  assuredly,  and  it  was 
her  cousin,  again,  whom  she  met  last  night.  As  to  your 
other  supposition,  or  Fanny's,  it  is  nothing — from  Fanny's 
novel-reading  brain — from  you,  Phil,  if  repeated,  I  shall 
consider  it  an  insult.  My  wife  is  pure  as  heaven.  This 
is  all  very  strange,  very  mysterious  ;  but  with  her,  at  least, 
there  is  no  guilt.  Tlie  man  she  meets  is  her  near  relative, 
and  never  has  been,  and  never  will  be,  her  lover.'^ 

He  spoke  bravely,  but  his  cheek  was  ashen  white,  and 
his  heart  seemed  torn  within  him. 

Doctor  Phil  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Xot  a  doubt  of  it,  George.  Caesar's  wife  is  above  re- 
proach.    Still,  if  this  matter  gets  wind " 

**The  matter  is  hardly  likely  to  get  wind  ;  but,  consid- 
ering all  things,  you  might  have  been  a  trifle  more  dis- 
creet. Doctor  Barstone.  There  was  no  need,  that  I  can 
see,  of  taking  Fanny  into  your  confidence." 

"  Fanny  knew  that  she  had  left  the  house,  and  that  I 
followed  her.  I  do  not  see  that  I  am  called  upon  to  in- 
vent lies  to  cover  your  wife's  very  remarkable  conduct. 
When  Fanny  asked  me  where  she  had  been,  I  told  her  the 
truth,  and  that  led  to  her  telling  me  what  she  saw.  I  con- 
gratulate you,  my  dear  fellow,  upon  your  freedom  from 
the  green-eyed  monster's  power  ;  but  egad  I  if  she  were 
my  wife,  I  would  keep  a  sharp  eye  upon  her." 

*'  Thank  you  for  your  advice,  Phil.  If  I  remember 
rightly,  when  you  had  a  wife,  you  very  seriously  neglected 
keeping  an  eye  upon  her  at  all,  sharp  or  otherwise.  And 
that  briugs  us  back  to  the  picture.  I  shall  speak  to  Mrs. 
Barstone  upon  that  subject  the  moment  she  appears." 

The  young  doctor's  sallow  face  blackened.  He  arose 
from  his  seat. 


"I  BELIEVE  DESDEMOXA'S  HONEST."     231 

"  You  mctiii  you  will  tell  her  all  ?" 

*'  By  no  means.  I  shall  tell  her  nothing  of  you.  And, 
for  the  future,  I  will  relieve  you  of  the  duty  of  watching 
my  wife.  You  do  not  like  her  and  she  heartily  dislikes 
yoii.  Be  kind  enough  to  interfere  in  no  way  with  her, 
from  this  day  forth." 

Doctor  Philip  turned  to  quit  the  room. 

"  I  was  a  fool,"  he  said,  ''  and  I  have  received  a  fool's 
reward.  Rest  easy,  my  good  cousin,  Mrs.  Barstone  may 
go  unwatched  to  her  nocturnal  meetings  to  the  end  of  the 
chapter,  for  me." 

He  stalked  out  of  the  room.  It  was  the  first  serious 
quarrel  the  cousins  had  ever  had,  and  that  thought  did 
not  tend  to  soothe  George's  irritation.  How  entirely  he 
had  trusted  this  woman,  and  how  bitterly  he  had  been  de- 
ceived. 

"  I  could  have  staked  my  very  soul  upon  her  fidelity 
and  truth,"  he  thought,  with  a  groan,  "  and  now  I  " 

Meantime  Magdalen  had  reached  Millford.  But  a  walk 
to  the  post-office  was  rendered  unnecessary,  for  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  town,  pacing  slowly  along  one  of  the  most 
unfrequented  little  streets,  she  came  face  to  face  with 
Willie.  She  clutched  his  arm  and  looked  at  him  with 
gleaming  eyes. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  the  man's  come  back  ?  " 

"  He  came  not  an  hour  ago,  and  he  has  seen  the  picture 
and  recognized  it  at  once.  I  saw  amaze  and  horror  in  his 
face,  I  tell  you.  Tiiere  can  no  longer  be  the  shadow  of  a 
doubt.     Send  for  Caroline  Reed  as  soon  as  you  please." 

"  But  what  did  he  say  ?  "  Willie  demanded. 

"  Nothing  to  me.  I  was  hidden  from  view  when  he 
looked  at  the  picture,  and  he  rose  up  and  left  the  house. 
I  ran  up  to  my  room,  wrote  a  note  to  you,  and  was  on  my 
way  to  post  it  now.  He  is  the  man,  Willie.  Let  his  wife 
come  when  she  likes." 

"I  will  telegraph  to-day — she  will  be  here  by  this  time 
to-morrow.  If  you  want  to  see  her,  you  can  come,  to- 
morrow afternoon,  to  Freeman's  boarding-house  and  ask 
for  Mrs.  Reed." 

''And  then?" 

''  And  then  I  will  take  her  before  a  magistrate,  and  she 
will  make  her  deposition  ;  and  tiien  we  will  go  to  the 
house  and  confront  the  murderer  of  his  child.     I  will  have 


232  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

him  placed  nnder  arrest  at  once.  As  for  you,  my  poor 
Magdalen — what  do  you  mean  to  do  when  all  is  over  ?" 

Magdalen  smiled — a  smile  that  startled  her  brother. 

**  Never  mind  me,"  she  said.  "  I  know  what  will  be- 
come of  me." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  Why  do  you  look  so  queerly  ? 
Magdalen " 

'*  Let  us  say  no  more  about  it — '  unto  the  day,  the  day.' 
I  must  return  to  Golden  Willows.  To-morrow,  at  five 
o'clock,  I  will  call  at  Freeman's  and  see  Mrs.  Reed.  Until 
then,  good-by." 

She  left  him  and  walked  rapidly  homeward.  As  she 
passed  Willow  Lake  she  paused  and  looked  down,  and  the 
smile  that  had  startled  Willie  returned  to  her  pale  face. 

*'  Yes,"  she  said,  under  her  breath.  "  I  know  what  will 
become  of  me." 

The  afternoon  sunshine  was  flinging  long  red  lines  over 
the  snow  before  she  reached  the  house.  George  met  her 
as  she  entered  the  door. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  very  quietly,  "where  have  you 
been  ?  " 

"ToMillford." 

She  passed  him  swiftly  as  she  spoke  and  hurried  up 
stairs.     He  followed  her  and  closed  the  door. 

"  Magdalen,"  he  said,  "  I  have  a  few  words  to  say  to  you, 
and  as  business  compels  me  to  go  to  the  office  I  will  say 
them  at  once.     You  were  out  last  night  in  the  storm  'i" 

"  I  was.'' 

"  You  went  to  the  old  mill  by  the  river  ?  " 

^'  I  did.     I  was  watched,  then,  it  seems." 

"You  were  watched  and  followed.  You  went  to  meet 
a  man  there  and  remained  with  him  an  hour.  Magdalen, 
who  was  that  man  ?  " 

"  I  have  told  you  before — a  relative." 

"  The  same  you  met  in  New  York  ?  " 

"  The  same." 

"  But,  great  heaven  !  Magdalen,  what  does  all  this  se- 
crecy and  mystery  mean  ?  AVhy  did  you  brave  the  night 
and  the  tempest  to  meet  any  relative,  in  such  a  place  ?" 

"That  is  my  secret." 

"  There  is  a  secret,  then  ?  " 

"  There  is." 

"  Which  yon  will  not  tell  me  ?  " 


"I  BELIEVE  DESDEMONA'S  HONEST."     233 

"Which  I  will  not  tell  you  to-night.  But  rest  easy- 
yon  will  know  it  before  the  week  ends." 

"1  will  !  "  he  took  a  step  eagerly  toward  her.  ''  Yoa 
promise  me  this,  Magdalen.  I  will  know  it  all  before  the 
week  ends  ?  '' 

**  All,  I  promise." 

**  I  knew  it !  "  George  cried.  "  I  told  him  so.  But  you 
should  not  have  been  so  imprudent,  my  own  dear  girl — you 
might  have  caught  your  death.  And  now  there  is  but  one 
thing  more — about  that  picture  ?" 

"  What  picture  ?  "  she  turned  upon  him  with  eager  eyes. 
"What  picture  ?" 

"  The  ambrotype  left  on  the  dining-room  table,"  he 
answered,  quietly.  "Left  there  by  you;  was  it  not, 
Magdalen  ?  " 

"  Yes— I  left  it  there." 

"  And  why  ?     How  came  you  to  possess  that  picture  ?" 

"  That  is  another  secret.  I  need  not  tusk  if  you  recog- 
nized it  ?  " 

'*I  recognized  it,  certainly — poor,  unhappy  creature  I 
Magdalen,  do  tell  me  what  you  know  of  her  story,  and  how 
you  came  by  the  j^or trait  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  in  wonder.  Ilis  face  ))uzzled  her — 
it  was  grave  and  full  of  concern  ;  but  that  look  was  hardly 
a  look  of  guilt.  Was  he  so  hardened — so  utterly  dead  to 
fear  and  remorse  as  all  this  ? 

"I  cannot  tell  you  now,"  she  said,  slowly  ;  "but  I  re- 
peat you  will  know  all  ere  the  week  ends.  I  placed  the 
picture  there  to  see  whether  or  not  you  would  recognize 
it,  and  I  saw  you  did.  Uow  I  came  by  it,  and  what  I 
know,  you  will  learn  later,  or " 

She  turned  resolutely  to  leave  him,  but  he  spoke  again  : 

"  One  last  question,  Magdalen — you  went  to  Millford 
just  now  to  meet  that  man,  Johnstone,  again  ?" 

''I  did.  I  suppose  Doctor  Barstone,  who  followed  me 
last  night,  will  be  anxious  to  know.  You  can  set  his  mind 
at  rest  as  you  go  down." 

She  passed  into  one  of  the  inner  rooms  and  turned  the 
key  in  the  door.  And  George  turned  heavily  and  slowly 
to  quit  tlie  house,  with  a  heart  that  lay  like  lead  in  iiis 
bosom.  Wonder  and  doubt  lilled  him.  What  strange 
mystery  was  this  that  had  come  to  darken  their  humdrum 
country  home  ?" 


234  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

AT   THE    LAST    MOMENT. 

The  12.30  train  from  New  York,  on  the  following  day, 
bronght  a  lodger  to  Freeman's  boarding-house — a  pale 
little  woman  in  black — who  gave  her  name  as  Mrs.  Reed. 
It  was  the  stranger,  Johnstone,  who  had  been  stop- 
ping there  for  some  days  past,  who  presented  her  to  the 
landlady  as  his  sister,  and  requested  that  a  cup  of  tea 
might  be  served  at  once  in  her  room.  When  the  tea  and 
toast  came,  he  left  Mrs.  Reed  to  partake  of  these  refresh- 
ments by  herself,  and  lounged,  in  an  aimless  sort  of  way, 
up  and  down  the  dreary  little  back  street.  The  uproar 
and  smoke  of  the  neighboring  factories  filled  it,  but  few 
people  passed,  and  those  few  took  no  notice  of  the  shabby 
young  man  in  the  slouched  hat,  who  paced  restlessly  up 
and  down,  evidently  waiting  impatiently. 

The  town  clock  tolled  the  afternoon  hours  sonorously, 
and  with  each  the  shabby  young  man  grew  more  and  more 
impatient.  Four  struck — five ;  it  was  rapidly  growing 
dusk,  and  the  sun  was  setting  redly  far  off  behind  the 
hills,  when  she  for  whom  he  waited  came,  lightly  and 
swiftly,  into  the  dismal  little  street.  She  was  closely 
veiled,  but  there  was  no  mistaking  that  tall,  slim,  supple 
figure — that  rapid,  graceful  walk. 

*'  At  last ! "  Willie  Allward  said,  discontentedly.  "  Fve 
been  waiting  about  here  for  the  last  four  hours,  and  was 
just  going  to  give  you  up." 

"  I  could  get  away  no  sooner,"  his  sister  answered,  breath- 
lessly, from  her  long  walk.  "  I  waited  until  Doctor  Bar- 
stone,  my  husband's  brother,  took  Miss  Winters  out  for  a 
drive.  He  has  played  the  spy  on  me  more  than  once.  I 
did  not  want  him  to  follow  me  here.     Has  she  come  ?  " 

"  Yes — by  the  noon  train.  I  say,  Magdalen,  she's  a 
scarey  sort  of  thing — never  quite  got  over  the  horror  of 
that  night  in  Brooklyn — so  be  gentle  with  her.  Don't  go 
off  into  tantrums  and  frighten  her  out  of  the  few  senses 
she  has  left." 

"  You  need  not  be  alarmed.     My  tantrums,  as  you  call 


AT  THE  LAST  MOMENT.  235 

them,  are  at  an  end.  I  will  not  frigliten  her  and  I  will 
stay  bnt  a  few  minutes.     I  have  no  anger  against  her." 

But  her  teetii  set  as  she  said  it.  No  anger  against  the 
woman  wlio  was  Goorge  Barstone's  lawful  wife  ! 

She  followed  Willie  into  the  house  and  upstairs  to  a  door 
in  the  landing,  at  which  he  knocked.  It  was  opened  in- 
stantly, and  the  two  women,  who  had  such  good  reason  to 
hate  George  Barstone,  were  face  to  face. 

Magdalen  stood  and  regarded  her  with  the  mercile.^s 
scrutiny  one  woman  bestows  upon  another  who  is  her  rival. 

Mrs.  Reed  drooped  before  it,  her  eyes  fell,  and  she  drew 
instinctively  a  step  nearer  Willie,  as  if  for  protection  from 
this  tall,  fair-haired,  handsome  woman,  who  looked  at  her 
so  sternly  out  of  those  dark,  beautiful  eyes. 

She  was  a  little  creature,  very  wan,  and  faded,  and  thin, 
with  hollow  eyes  and  sunken  checks,  and  a  sharp,  hacking 
cough.  Yet  she  had  been  pretty,  when  those  melancholy 
black  eyes  had  shone  with  the  hapjjy  sparkle  of  youth  ; 
when  those  ashen  cheeks  had  bloomed  rosily  with  healtii, 
and  those  thin,  dark  locks  had  fallen  in  abundant  black 
ringlets  down  to  her  girlish  waist.  The  small,  wan  face 
looked  very  appealing  and  piteous  now.  It  touched  even 
Magdalen. 

"  Uon't  be  afraid,"  she  said,  gently  answering  that  im- 
ploring look.  "  I  don't  blame  yon  ;  I  pity  you  with  all 
my  heart.  Will  you  sit  down  ?  I  can  remain  but  a  few 
minutes." 

There  was  a  queeuliness  always  about  Mrs.  Barstone  that 
made  people  obey  her  unconsciously. 

Little  Mrs.  Reed  collapsed  into  a  sofa,  in  a  state  of  nerv- 
ous terror,  looking  helplessly  anywhere  but  into  that  stonily 
pale  face. 

"  My  brother  has  told  me  your  story  ;  but,  somehow,  I 
would  like  to  hear  it  from  your  own  lips.  You  will  tell  it 
me,  will  you  not  ?  IIow  you  first  met  and  married  Maurice 
Langley— all  ?  " 

"It  seems  so  long  ago — so  long  ago  !  "  Caroline  Reed 
murmured,  rocking  to  and  fro  in  her  seat,  her  haiuls  clasped 
together  ;  "  a  score  of  years,  instead  of  eight.  It  is  a 
very  common  story — we  read  of  such  things  in  the  pa])ers 
every  week.  I  was  a  sinii)le  village  girl,  knowing  no  more 
of  the  great  world  outside  our  hamlet  than  a  babv,  and  he 
was  the  handsomest,  almost  the  only,  gentleman  Thad  ever 


336  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

seen.  He  had  come  to  our  village  to  fish,  two  other  gentle- 
men with  him,  and  he  fell  in  love  with  my  pretty  face.  I 
was  pretty  then,  though  never  half  as  beautiful  as  you. 
Ah  !  how  could  he  do  it?     How  could  he  do  it  ?" 

'*  He  is  Capable  of  doing  more  than  that,  Mrs.  Reed. 
Go  on  !  He  married  you  there,  I  suppose,  under  his  as- 
sumed name  ?" 

"  He  did.  I  have  our  marriage  certificate  here,"  tap- 
ping her  breast  ;  "  and  the  minister  who  married  us  is  still 
alive.  He  brought  me  to  Kew  York,  and,  for  nearly  a 
year,  loved  me  and  was  good  to  me,  and  gave  me  a  lady's 
life.  But,  when  my  baby  was  born,  it  all  ended.  He 
hated  children — he  never  could  endure  to  look  at  it. 
Then,  gradually,  he  ceased  to  visit  me.  I  left  the  com- 
fortable lodgings  in  which  I  had  spent  that  one  happy  year 
and  took  a  poor  little  room  and  went  out  to  work.  _  Once 
in  a  rare  interval  he  visited  me  still  and  I  forgave  him  and 
loved  him,  and  thanked  heaven  when  I  saw  him.  I  loved 
him  so  dearly  that  neither  desertion  nor  abuse  nor  blows 
could  quite  kill  it.  It  was  only  when  I  heard  from  his 
confederate,  Burns,  who  had  been  groomsman  at  our  wed- 
ding, that  he  had  another  wife  in  New  York,  that  all  the 
love  died  out  and  anger  and  hatred  took  its  place.  I  wrote 
that  unfortunate  young  lady  a  letter.  You  know  what 
followed  for  her,  and  me,  and  my  child.  It  has  made  me 
what  you  see — an  old,  broken-down  woman,  at  twenty -six, 
who  looks  forward  with  hope  to  nothing  but  a  speedy 
death." 

She  swayed  herself  to  and  fro  in  the  same  dreary  way, 
her  large  black  eyes  tearless  and  blank. 

Magdalen's  womanly  heart  went  out  to  her  in  a  great 
compassion,  poor  little  frail  waif,  tossed  about  on  the 
bitter  sea  of  life  !  And  the  pity  that  softened  her  heart 
for  the  betrayed  wife  hardened  it  to  stone  for  the  mau 
who  had  done  this  dastardly  deed. 

"  The  villain  !  "  she  said.  "  The  coward  !  Oh,  mighty 
God  !  where  sleep  Thy  thunderbolts  when  such  base,  base 
wretches  live  and  prosper  !  Let  vengeance  fall  upon  him, 
heavy  and  bitter  I  I  will  never  lift  a  finger  to  save  him. 
You  are  sure  you  will  know  him  again,  Mrs  Eeed,  after  all 
those  years  ?  " 

'•  Sure  ! '"'  she  said,  lifting  her  melancholy  eyes.  "  Can 
a  wife  forget  her  husband  ?    But,  before  I  stand  face  to 


AT  THE  LAST  MOMENT.  237 

face  with  him  as  his  accuser,  I  shouM  like  to  look  at  him 
once  more,  all  unseen.  It  will  make  certainty  doubly 
sure, 

"It  can  be  done,"  Magdalen  answered,  "very  easily, 
as  it  happens.  You  have  heard  mc  speak  pf  Miss  Winters, 
Willie  ?  Yesterday,  after  I  went  home,  she  met  me,  in  a 
great  state  of  delight,  and  announced  tiiat  a  surprise  party 
was  to  be  held  to-night,  at  the  house  of  a  friend  here  in 
Millford — Miss  Ella  Goldham's.  George  liarstone,  his 
cousin.  Miss  Winters  and  myself  are  to  be  of  the  party. 
If  you  know  where  the  house  is,  Willie,  you  can  fetch  Mrs. 
Reed  there  and  see  us  as  we  enter. '' 

"  I  know  the  house,"  Willie  answered,  "  a  large  brick 
house,  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  with  a  long  ganlon  and 
lots  of  trees  in  front.  The  garden  runs  down  to  the  very 
water's  edge." 

"  Exactly.  The  entrance  hall  will  be  lighted,  of  course, 
and  there  is  nothing  to  hinder  you  and  Mrs.  Reed  from 
concealing  yourselves  behind  the  trees  aiul  seeing  all  who 
go  in.  It  will  probably  be  half-past  nine  when  we  arrive, 
and  there  is  a  full  moon," 

"  We  will  be  there,"  said  Willie  ;  "and  the  grand  ex- 
posure shall  come  to-night.  When  the  merrymaking  is  at 
its  height,  which  will  be,  I  suppose,  a  couple  of  hours  after 
your  arrival,  I  will  enter  with  Caroline,  accuse  him  of 
bigamy  and  murder — 1  will  denounce  him  before  his  as- 
sembled friends — and  our  dead  sister  will  be  avenged  !  " 

There  was  a  pause.  The  twilight  filled  the  room  now, 
and,  through  the  dusk,  the  faces  of  the  two  women 
gleamed  like  marble. 

*'  To-night  he  shall  be  exposed — to-morrow  he  shall  be 
arrested.  And  then,  Magdalen,  what  becomes  of  you  ? 
You  can  come  here  and  stop  with  Caroline,  you  know," 

His  sister  rose  up. 

"Don't  trouble  yourself  about  me,  Willie.  I  will  find 
a  refuge.  I  leave  you  now.  Good-by  until  we  meet 
again  ! " 

There  was  a  solemnity  in  her  tone,  a  look  in  her  rigid 
face  that  startled  him  strangely.  She  held  out  her  hand, 
first  to  him  ;  then,  after  a  little  hesitation,  to  Caroline. 

"  Farewell  !"  she  said.  "  On  the  road  we  are  treading 
there  is  no  turning  back.  'I'o-night  I  will  have  kept  my 
vow  and  Laura  will  be  avenged  !" 


238  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

She  flitted  out  of  the  room  as  she  spoke.  Her  brother 
followed  her  uneasily. 

"  Magdalen,"  he  said,   "  let  me  accompany  you  home." 

But  she  only  waved  her  hand  in  farewell  and  denial,  and 
was  out  of  sight  in  a  moment. 

She  left  the  forlorn  little  back  street  and  made  her  way 
■  0  the  center  of  the  town,  where  the  stores  were  already 
1  blaze  with  gaslight.  Before  one  of  these  stores  a  sleigh 
stood  and  Dr.  Philip  Barstone  was  in  the  act  of  helping 
Miss  Winters  into  the  seat. 

"Can  you  make  room  for  me,  Dr.  Philip?"  a  voice 
at  his  elbow  said.  "  I  walked  in  and  I  don't  feel  disposed 
to  walk  back." 

"  Why,  Magdalen  ! "  cried  Fanny  in  wonder,  "  you 
here  !  What  brought  you  in,  pray,  and  why  don't  you 
wait  for  George  ?  Peter  is  coming  for  him  the  moment 
we  get  back." 

"  Then  you  cannot  accommodate  me  in  the  sleigh  ?  " 

"  Most  certainly  we  can  ! "  Doctor  Philip  answered, 
"  and  I  will  sit  bodkin  between  you.  And  so  you  walked 
in  ?  What  famous  pedestrians  you  country  ladies  are  ! 
But  you  should  have  come  with  us  and  not  used  yourself 
up,  with  four  hours'  hard  dancing  in  store  for  you." 

"  What  did  you  come  for  ?  "  demanded  blunt  Fanny  ; 
"  shopping  ?  You  haven't  got  any  parcels.  Perhaps 
you  were  at  the  office  to  see  George  ?" 

"  No,  I  was  not  at  the  office,  nor  was  I  shopping.  You 
were,  though,  I  am  certain." 

"  That  she  was  !"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  "  as  I  know 
to  my  cost  !  She  has  been  in  every  dry  goods  and  millin- 
er's store  in  the  town  and  purchased  a  few  dollars'  worth 
in  each.  What  you  ladies  contrive  to  do  with  all  the  yards 
of  silk  and  lace  and  ribbons  you  buy  is  a  perpetual  mys- 
tery to  me." 

"  Wear  'em,  of  course,  and  look  pretty  !  "  said  Fanny. 
"I  have  got  the  loveliest  wreath  for  to-night,  Magdalen 
— ivy,  you  know,  and  crystalized  grasses, — and  the  most 
beautiful  black  beetle  you  ever  saw  perched  on  the  center 
cluster  !  You  will  wear  white  to-night,  being  a  bride 
still,  though,  of  course,  we  can't  dress  much,  seeing  it's 
only  a  surprise  party." 

*'  That  will  be  no  restraint  upon  you,  my  dear,"  the 
doctor  said.     "  You  will  array  yourself  more  magnificently 


AT  THE  LAST  MOMENT.  239 

than  Solomon  in  all  his  glory.  Look  at  the  moonlight  on 
Willow  Luke  yonder,  Mrs.  Barstone — with  the  black  shad- 
ows of  the  trees  thrown  across." 

"  Moonlight  on  the  lake,"  ninnnured  Fanny  ;  "■  it 
always  reminds  me  of  the  lovely  m-w  shade  in  dress 
goods.  I  wish  we  didn't  have  to  wait  dinner  for  ( Jeorge  — 
shopping  always  makes  me  so  dreadfully  liungry." 

They  reached  the  house  ;  Magdalen  had  spoken  scarcely 
a  word  at  all  during  the  liomeward  ride,  and  a  look  of 
deep-settled  sadness  lay  upon  her  face.  "  If  any  calm,  a 
calm  despair.''  Such  a  calm  had  fallen  \\\)0\\  her  tortured 
heart.  The  end  had  come — her  resolution  was  taken — a 
wicked  am!  desperate  resolution,  to  which  that  blind  des- 
pair had  driven  her. 

This  ni;;ht,  that  brought  exposure  and  disgrace  to 
George  Barstone,  would  bo  her  last  upon  earth.  Better 
death,  she  thought,  speedy  and  paiidess,  than  live  to  go 
mad  with  misery.  She  was  mad  already,  though  she  did 
not  know  it.  She  could  not  see  how  terrible  was  the  crime 
she  meditated — far  deeper  and  more  deadly  than  ever  her 
wild  and  sinful  vow.  Tlierc  seemed  no  alternative  left; 
she  accepted  her  doom  with  the  quiet  calm  of  despair. 
She  went  up  to  her  room  and  began,  with  strange,  un- 
natural composure,  to  dress.  She  brushed  out  the  bur- 
nished masses  of  hair  and  twisted  roses  through  the  glitter- 
ing braids  and  bands.  She  chose  a  dress  of  white  tissue 
that  floated  about  her  like  a  misty  cloud — soft,  rich  lace 
draping  the  exquisite  bosom  and  polished  bare  arms. 

Perhaps  she  had  never  in  her  life  looked  half  so  beauti- 
ful as  when  George  Barstone  opened  the  door  and  stood 
before  her. 

"  Dressed  !  '*  he  said,  gazing  at  her  with  eyes  full  of  love 
and  admiration,  ''  so  soon  !  My  darling,  how  lovely  you 
look  !  A  very  lily  queen — so  pure,  so  white,  so  beauti- 
ful ! " 

Magdalen  smiled.  An  indescribable  change  had  come 
over  her — a  change  in  voice  and  face  and  smile — a  change 
George  saw  but  could  not  understand. 

"  I  am  a  bride,  you  know,''  she  said,  with  that  soft,  in- 
ward smile,  *' and  brides  should  wear  white.  II ark  I  Is 
that  Fanny  calling  ?  I  leave  you  to  make  your  toilet  and 
pray  do  not  linger." 

She  floated  from  the  room  ere  he  could  detain  her  and 


tm  MAGDALEN'S  VOW, 

went  to  Fanny's.  Miss  Winters  had  impressed  the  two 
housemaids  into  her  service,  and  was,  as  Phil  had  pre- 
dicted, splendid  to  behold.  Green  silk,  fabulously  long, 
a  lofty  waterfall  and  the  crown  of  ivy  and  crystalized 
grasses  shining  amid  her  braids. 

"Will  I  do?"  demanded  the  heiress.  "Does  green 
become  me,  Magdalen,  or  am  I  too  red  ?  How  sweet  you 
do  look — don't  she,  Susan  ?  So  pale  and  cool  and  Maid-of- 
the-Mist-like  !  I  never  can  look  half  as  nice  as  you,  dress 
as  I  choose  I  " 

"  You  are  all  the  better  for  not  being  like  me  in  any 
way,"  Magdalen  answered,  "and  your  dress  is  very  be- 
coming. While  you  finish  I  will  step  in  and  see  Aunt 
Lydia." 

It  was  to  say  good-by  ;  but  Miss  Barstone  did  not  know 
that,  as  she  held  out  hor  hand  and  kissed  her  favorite 
nephew's  wife.  There  had  been  no  opportunity  for  that 
talk  she  had  promised  George,  and  there  was  no  time  now. 
She  looked  anxiously  into  the  cold,  white  face  of  this  bride 
of  two  months,  who  kept  her  troubles  buried  out  of  sight 
in  her  heart. 

"  How  pale  you  are,  my  child  ! "  she  said,  tenderly. 
*'  Your  face  is  as  colorless  as  your  dress.  You  look  hardly 
fit  for  this  party  to-night," 

"  I  am  quite  fit  for  it,"  Magdalen  answered.  "  I  will  be 
entirely  well  when  you  see  me  again.  I  ran  in  to  say  good- 
by  before  leaving.  There  are  the  sleigh-bells  now.  Good- 
by,  dear  Aunt  Lydia,  good-by  !  good-by  ! " 

.She  kissed  her  twice,  and  hurried  out  of  the  chamber. 
Fanny,  shawled  and  hooded,  stood  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs,  and  the  gentlemen  were  putting  on  their  overcoats. 

Magdalen  hastened  into  her  own  apartments,  threw  on 
her  heavy  cloth  mantle  and  pretty,  fleecy,  white  hood. 
One  last  backward  glance  she  cast — a  glance  of  sad  fare- 
well. 

"  Good-by  !"  she  said,  softly;  "good-by,  my  own  dear 
room  !     Good-by,  forever  !  " 

George  drew  her  hand  within  his  arm  and  followed  the 
other  pair  to  the  sleigh.  She  kept  her  face  averted 
slightly,  lest  he,  too  should  notice  the  deathly  pallor 
that  lay  on  it. 

There  was  no  anger  in  her  heart  toward  him  to-night ; 
somehow,  it  had  all  died  out.     His  retribution  waa  close 


AT  THE  LAST  MOMENT.  241 

i»fc  haud,  and  all  the  unutterable  misery  of  the  past  two 
months  must  end  to-niglit  for  her. 

There  was  not  even  a  chance  for  thought  once  they  left 
the  house,  much  less  for  private  conversation.  A  large 
three-seat  sleigli  stood  outside  the  gate,  •lilleil  to  overflow- 
ing with  laugiiing  girls  and  noisy  young  men. 

The  young  ladies  nil  talked  and  laughed  together,  and 
a  jollier  surprise  party  never  made  Mill  ford  ring.  Their 
four  fleet  horses  brought  them,  in  fifteen  minutes,  to  the 
residence  of  Miss  Ella  Goldham,  and  the  big  sleigh  drew 
up,  Avith  a  vast  deal  of  laughing  and  chatter,  to  the  gate. 

The  full  February  moon  shone  silver-bright  in  the  sky, 
and  made  the  night  almost  as  clear  as  noonday.  Magdalen 
glanced,  and — yes,  there  under  the  chestnut  stood  the  dark 
figures  of  a  man  and  a  woman,  only  half  hidden  by  the 
stri))ped  trees.  No  one  else  saw  them  ;  all  were  too  full 
of  the  night's  frolic,  as  they  rapidly  paired  off  and  bustled 
up  to  the  front  door. 

Again  George  drew  her  arm  within  his  and  led  her  on, 
all  unconscious  of  the  fatal  eyes  uj)on  him.  Her  heart 
seemed  to  cease  its  beating  as  they  passed  the  spot  where 
the  two  watchers  stood  ;  but  Phil  and  Fanny  were  behind, 
and  she  dared  not  even  look.  She  fancied  she  heard  a 
faint  cry  at  the  moment.  It  caught  the  quick  ears  of 
Doctor  Phil,  too  ! 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  he  said,  glancing  sliarply  around. 

"  What  is  what  ? "  said  Fanny,  hurrying  him  on. 
*'  The  wind,  of  course,  among  the  trees.  Look  !  there  is 
Ella,  got  up  regardless  for  the  occasion.  Our  surprise 
party  isn't  much  of  a  surprise  to  her." 

An  instant  later  and  they  were  all  in  the  house,  receiv- 
ing a  cordial  welcome  from  its  youthful  mistress.  The 
gas  burned  low  in  all  the  apartments  and  speedily  the 
house  was  flooded  with  light,  and  the  young  ladies  had 
removed  their  wraps  and  were  clustered  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  some  one  was  at  the  piano  playing  a  waltz  ;  and 
then,  two  by  two,  they  were  revolving  to  the  slow,  sweet 
music.     Miss  Ella  Goldham's  party  was  in  full  swing. 

*'  Will  you  waltz,  Magdalen  ?  "  George  said,  bending 
over  her  chair. 

He  hardly  expected  she  would,  but  she  arose  at  once, 
with  a  faint  smile.  It  was  her  farewell,  though  he  knew 
it  not.     She  floated  around  the  long  room  in  his  encirling 


24a  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

arms,  his  tall  shoulder  hiding  her  pale  face  ;  such  deadly 
resolve  in  the  sore  heart  beating  so  close  to  his  own. 

She  looked  at  her  watch — the  dance  concluded — only 
half-past  ten  as  yet.  Before  midnight  Willie  would  be  in 
their  midst  with  that  woman,  and  George  Barstone  would 
be  branded,  before  all  present,  as  a  murderer.  His  wife 
would  confront  them,  and  she  herself  be  known  for  tlie 
wretched,  betrayed  creature  she  was. 

"  Death  is  easier,"  she  thought,  with  a  great  calm  ; 
"  what  will  my  life  be  to  me  after  to-night,  that  I  should 
cling  to  it  ?  It  is  my  fate — I  have  been  under  a  curse 
from  first  to  last  !  " 

"  They  want  you  to  sing,  Magdalen,"  Emma  Goldham 
said,  coming  over.     ''  Come  along." 

She  arose  immediately,  and  crossed  over  to  the  piano. 
She  sang,  from  memory,  a  little  melancholy  song  that 
George  liked  best.  There  was  a  deep  pathos  in  the  voice 
of  the  singer,  a  solemn  sweetness  that  went  home  to  every 
heart.  A  profound  stillness  fell,  and,  as  she  arose,  so 
deathly-white,  with  such  a  far-ofE  vacant  look  in  her  eyes, 
her  listeners  looked  at  one  another  in  strange,  expectant 
silence.     Doctor  Philip's  ringing  tones  broke  the  hush. 

"  Very  pretty,  my  dear  Mrs.  Barstone,  but  rather  too 
dirge-like  for  this  festive  occasion.  Suppose  we  have 
something  lively  to  dispel  the  gentle  melancholy  o'er  us 
stealing." 

He  sat  down  himself,  rattled  off  an  accompaniment,  and 
shouted  forth  '^Limerick  Races"  in  a  fine,  resounding 
tenor,  that  speedily  dispelled  all  signs  of  gravity.  Then 
came  more  dancing,  two  or  three  sets  of  quadrilles — and 
the  merriment  was  at  its  height.  George  was  dancing 
with  Miss  Goldham — Magdalen  had  slipped  away  unob- 
served. Now  was  her  time,  if  ever ;  it  was  almost  eleven 
— in  half  an  hour,  at  the  farthest,  Willie  would  be  here. 

She  made  her  way  to  the  dressing-room,  concealed  her 
white  dress  beneath  her  long,  dark  mantle,  and  passed 
unnoticed  out  of  the  house.  Her  face  was  set  in  rigid 
resolve  — her  eyes  looked  blindly,  blankly  forward  in  great 
despair,  and  saw  nothing.  Slie  flitted  swiftly  as  a  spirit 
down  the  avenue,  out  of  the  gate,  and  along  to  the  river 
bank.  Far  below  it  flowed  silvery  in  the  moonbeams — one 
leap,  and  earthly  pain  would  end. 

She  stood  still  as  a  statue,  gazing  down  at  its  tranquil 


LEARNINO  THE  TRUTFT.  243 

flow  under  the  wliite  winter  moon.  Her  heart  felt  dead 
in  her  breast — every  thought,  every  feeling,  every  sense 
was  benumbed.  Siie  seemed  slowly  turning  to  stone — she 
never  hoard  the  rapidly  approacliiiig  footsteps  flying  over 
the  frozen  ground.  It  was  a  voice  calling  her  own  name 
that  aroused  her  first.  With  a  low  cry  she  turned  for  the 
fatal  spring,  when  a  hand  clutched  her  shoulder  and  tore 
her  back. 

"In  God's  name,  Magdalen,  stop  I  There  has  been 
some  terrible  mistake  here  ;  George  Barstone  is  NOT 
Maurice  Langley  ! " 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

LEARNING   THE   TRUTH. 

She  turned  around  and  faced  the  man  who  had  saved 
her  from  death.  It  was  Willie,  pale  as  herself,  with  wild 
face  and  startled  eyes. 

"Have  you  gone  mad,  Magdalen?"  he  demanded, 
savagely.  '"  Is  this  the  way  you  meant  to  confront  and 
accuse  the  destroyer  of  your  sister  ?  Coward  !  to  rush  to 
self-destruction  to  escape  trouble  !  An  instant  later  and 
you  would  have  been  beyond  mortal  help.  Are  you  mad, 
I  repeat  ?  " 

He  shook  her,  in  his  impatient  anger.  She  put  her 
hand  to  her  head  in  a  bewildered  sort  of  way. 

"  I  don't  know — perhaps  I  am  !  I  have  undergone 
enough  to  make  me  mad.  What  was  it  you  said  about  a 
mistake  ?  " 

"  We  have  been  wrong  from  beginning  to  end  !  Your 
husband  is  not  Maurice  Langley  !  " 

"  Not  Maurice  Langley  ! "  she  could  just  repeat  the 
words,  breathlessly — "  not  Maurice  Langley  !  " 

"  No,  I  tell  vou  !  I  am  certain  of  it,  for  I  have  seen 
the  real  Maurice  Langley  to-night.  Magdalen,  I  am  as 
glad  as  though  somebody  had  left  me  a  million  of  money, 
for  your  sake  !  Your  husband  is  your  husband  I  Go 
down  on  your  knees,  if  you  like,  aiul  beg  his  pardon,  for 
we  have  both  done  him  a  great  wrong.*' 

"  Not  Maurice  Langley  I "  Magdalen  said  once  more, 
in  the  same  dazed  way.     * '  What  do  you  mean  ?    George 


244  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

not  the  husband  of  that  woman,  but  my  own — my  very 


own 


9" 


*'  Your  own  !  Caroline  Reed  has  no  claim  upon  him — 
never  set  eyes  on  him  until  to-night.  You  mad  girl  !  to 
think  of  your  meditating  suicide,  and  the  truth  coming 
out  at  the  eleventh  hour  !  Your  husband  is  not  Maurice 
Langley,  I  say  again  ;  but  Maurice  Langley,  for  all  that, 
is  in  yonder  house," 

She  grew  so  faint  as  she  listened  that  she  would  have 
fallen  but  for  Willie's  encircling  arms.  Tlie  roar  of  the 
river  was  in  her  ears — the  stars  danced  dizzily  before  her 
— the  earth  seemed  reeling  under  her  feet. 

"Don't  faint!"  the  brother  cried,  fiercely;  "don't 
faint,  I  tell  you,  Magdalen  !  This  is  no  time  for  it.  We 
have  found  onr  man,  beyond  the  power  of  mistake,  this 
time  ;  and  I  want  you  to  tell  me  all  about  him  before  you 
go  back  to  the  house.  You  must  get  back,  you  know, 
before  you  are  missed,  or  we  will  have  them  here,  con- 
found them,  looking  for  you.  Here  !  I  brought  this  for 
fear  Caroline  might  get  chilled,  standing  waiting  in  the 
snow.  She  is  a  sickly  thing,  at  best.  Take  a  pull — it 
won't  hurt  you." 

He  put  a  flask  to  her  lips.  Magdalen  obeyed  mechani- 
cally. It  was  brandy  ;  but  she  tasted  it  no  more  than 
though  it  had  been  cold  water.  It  revived  her,  however  ; 
and  she  stood  erect  once  more,  and  looked  at  Willie. 

"Tell  me  all,"  she  said.  "I  shall  not  faint — I  am 
better  now — joy  does  not  kill.  But  oh,  thank  God  !  my 
darling  !  my  darling  !  " 

The  endearing  epithets  were  not  for  him,  Willie  knew. 
The  face  upturned  to  the  starlit  sky  was  glorified  with 
wifely  love  and  joy. 

''  Tell  me  all,"  she  repeated.  **  George  is  not  Maurice 
Langley  !  Ah  !  my  love  !  how  could  I  ever  doubt  you  ? 
Tell  me,  Willie,  who  is  ?  " 

"  Do  you  recollect  the  man  who  followed  you  and  your 
husband  into  the  house,  with  that  fat  little  girl  on  his 
arm  ?  A  tall  fellow,  with  a  blond  mustache — enough 
like  your  husband  to  be  his  brother.     That  is  the  man." 

"  What  !"  Magdalen  gasped. 

She  stood  an  instant,  gazing  upon  her  brother  in  blank 
surprise.  Strange  !  She  had  never  once  thought  of  him, 
and  now  a  conviction  of  the  truth  burst  upon  her  like  a 


LEARNING  THE  TRUTH.  346 

flash  of  sunlight.  She  saw  it  all — the  resemblance — the 
name — the  effect  of  the  picture — the  whole  tragedy  of 
errors  into  which  they  had  fallen  ever  since  their  wedding 
day. 

"He's  the  man — curse  him!''  Willie  said.  ''Why 
don't  you  speak  ?     Wiio  is  he  ?     You  ought  to  know." 

**  I  know  !  "  Magdalen  siiid,  clasping  her  hands.  "  Oh, 
Willie  !  I  see  it  all  I  Why  did  1  never  suspect  this  ?  I 
distrusted  that  inuii  and  disliked  him  from  the  first  ;  bnt 
1  never  knew  why.  Now,  I  know.  Oh,  w!iy  did  I  not 
suspect  him  ?     I  see  it  all  I  I  see  it  all  !  " 

"  Do  you  ?  Then  perhaps  you  will  be  good  enough  to 
let  me  see  it,  too.  Allow  me  to  remind  you,  Mrs.  Bar- 
stone,  time  is  on  the  wing.     Who  is  he  ?  " 

"  He  is  Philip  Barstone." 

**  Barstone!     Whew  I     Then  it  is  a  Barstone,  after  all." 

"  He  is  my  husband's  cousin — Doctor  Philip  Barstone. 
Tell  me,  Willie,  how  you  discovered  your  mistake," 

"  Why,  by  seeing  him,  of  course.  Caroline  and  I  both 
recognized  him  in  a  moment.  Your  husband  looked  so 
unfortunately  like  him  that  I  may  be  pardoned  for  making 
the  mistake.  Had  I  ever  seen  them  together,  I  would 
have  known  the  difference  at  once.  Didn't  you  hear 
Caroline  cry  out  at  sight  of  him  and  he  turned  around 
and  asked  what  was  that  ?  Then  I  knew  him  ;  his  hair 
and  mustache  used  to  be  dyed  black— as  his  heart— the 
scoundrel  ;  but  I  knew  his  face  again  directly.  That  is 
our  man,  Magdalen.     Is  he  stopping  at  Golden  Willows  ?  '* 

"  Yes,  and"  is  to  be  married,  in  three  weeks,  to  the  girl 
you  saw  on  his  arm.  She  has  come  into  a  fortune  lately. 
That  is  why  he  is  marrying  her.  Oh,  save  her,  Willie  I 
Expose  him  at  once,  and  save  Fanny  !" 

Willie  All  ward  laughed  harshly. 

"  I'll  save  her,  never  fear  ;  you  just  leave  this  matter 
to  me,  Magdalen.  Going  to  be  married,  in  three  weeks 
time,  is  he  ?  Very  well— I'll  wait  a  little.  On  his  wed- 
ding day,  when  he  stands  before  the  clergyman  with  his 
bride,  I'll  be  there,  too,  with  his  lately  dce-oasod  wife  ! 
Died  in  Bellevue,  did  she  ?  He'll  see  !  Won't  there  be  a 
tableau,  Magdalen  ?  Sensational  enough  for  the  Bowery 
Theater."  ,     ^     , 

"  Oh,  Willie  !  For  pity's  sake  don't  talk  so  !  Don  t 
wait !    Think  of  that  poor  girl's   feelings— spare  her— 


246  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

expose  him  at  once — come  to-morrow  to  the  honse  with 
Mrs.  Heed — don't  let  things  go  any  farther  !  She  has  done 
no  wrong — poor  little  Fanny  !  Think  of  her — think  of 
George — my  generous,  wronged  husband — think  of  poor 
Miss  Barstone,   who  loves   him — and   tell   the   truth   to- 


morrow 


!  " 


Willie  Allward's  face  set  in  dogged  defiance  and  reso- 
lution. 

"  I  will  think  of  no  one  !  I  will  spare  no  one  !  I  will 
show  him  the  mercy  he  has  shown  me,  Laura  and  Caro- 
line !  The  accursed  villain  !  the  double,  treble,  four- 
fold murderer  I  Spare  him  !  not  if  an  angel  came  from 
yonder  starlit  sky  to  plead  for  him  !  And  my  curse  upon 
you,   Magdalen  Barstone,  if  you   frustrate  my  scheme!^' 

She  wrung  her  hands.  Her  heart  went  out  in  infinite 
compassion  to  the  poor  little  confiding  girl,  who  had  loved 
him  so  long  and  so  well.  And  George  and  Aunt  Lydia — 
how  they  would  suffer — what  disgrace  would  be  theirs,  foi 
her  sake. 

"  Oh,  Willie  !"  she  cried,  wildly,  "be  merciful — not  to 
him — but  to  them  !  He  will  feel  the  blow  as  deeply  now, 
but  they  will  not !  It  will  kill  poor  Fanny,  if  you  dragged 
him  from  her  side  on  her  wedding  day  !  " 

"Young  ladies  are  not  so  easily  killed  !"  Willie  re- 
torted with  a  sneer.  •'  I  tell  you  t  shall  think  of  no  one 
— spare  no  one  !  I  will  show  him  no  more  mercy  than  if 
I  were  a  bloodhound  on  his  track  !  How  dare  you  plead 
for  him — you  of  all  women  alive  ?  Think  of  your  dead 
sister,  your  broken-hearted  father,  your  felon  brother, 
your  vow  !  Think  of  your  vow,  and  ask  me  to  spare  him 
if  you  dare  ! " 

She  dropped  before  him  ;  her  hands  fell. 

"Heaven  help  Fanny!"  she  almost  sobbed,  "since! 
cannot  !" 

"  You  will  leave  this  matter  entirely  to  me  ! "  persisted 
Willie.  "  I  shall  not  ask  your  help.  Only  remain  neu- 
tral, and  hold  your  tongue.  Caroline  and  I  will  remain 
here  until  the  wedding  day.  Upon  the  wedding  day  we 
will  be  there.  Mind,  not  to  your  husband,  not  to  a  living 
soul,  must  you  breathe  a  word  of  the  truth.  When  the 
cup  is  at  his  lip,  when  a  rich  bride  stands  by  his  side,  I 
will  tear  her  and  her  wealth  from  him,  and  show  him  to 
all  there  as  the  murderer  and  villain  he  is  !    On  your 


LEARNING  THE  TRUTH.  247 

wedding  day,  Maurice  L:iiigley,  1  tliink  Laura  and  William 
All  ward  will  be  avenged  ! " 

His  eyes  glowed,  his  voice  rang.  His  whole  frame 
seemed  to  grow  taller  in  liis  exultant,  savage  triumph. 

His  sister  shrunk  from  him.  His  burning  thirst  for 
revenge  seemed  a  horrible  thing,  seen  in  another.  In  lier- 
self  it  had  appeared  but  righteous  justice. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  get  back  to  the  house  now," 
Willie  said.  "They'll  miss  yon  presently,  and  that  won't 
do.  Caroline  is  waiting  yonder,  too,  and  will  be  about 
frozen.  The  sight  of  that  scoundrel  has  upset  her  alto- 
gether. You  women  are  odd  cattle.  I  believe  she'd  for- 
give Langley  to-morrow,  if  he  asked  her.  Come,  I'll  see 
you  safe  to  the  house  ;  and  don't  look  so  wild  a»2d  white, 
if  you  can  help  it." 

He  seized  her  arm  and  hurried  her  along.  On  the  way 
a  thought  struck  him,  and  he  stopped. 

"  I  say,  Magdalen,  look  here  !  The  mark  on  the  arm, 
you  know.     How  do  you  account  for  that  ?  " 

Magdalen  had  never  thought  of  it. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  liopelessly.  '*  My  head 
is  in  a  whirl.     I  can  account  for  nothing  !  " 

"  It  must  be  that  they  both  have  it,  you  know.  They 
lived  together  as  boys,  I  sujipose  ?  " 

''  Yes — I  believe  so." 

"  Then  they  both  have  it,,  depend  upon  it.  It  was  done 
in  boyhood,  Langley  told  me.  You  must  tind  out  in  some 
round-about  way  ;  but,  mark  or  no  mark,  your  Philip 
Barstone  is  Maurice  Langley  !     Now  hurry  along  !  " 

They  reached  the  house.  The  sound  of  music  and 
dancing  feet  came  merrily  to  them  where  they  stood  in 
the  solemn  winter  night.  Willie  shook  his  clenched  fist  at 
the  glowing  windows. 

'"And  he  is  there — curse  him — enjoying  it  all — audi 
stand  here — the  felon  he  made  nie  !  And  you  ask  me  to 
spare  him  !  If  he  were  to  be  hanged  to-morrow  I'd  be 
hangman,  and  plead  for  the  privilege  on  my  knees  !  " 

She  broke  away  from  him  wildly  and  fled  up  to  the 
house.  She  was  like  a  woman  beside  iierself — frantic  for 
the  time — with  all  she  had  suffered.  She  rushed  along 
the  lighted  hall  and  into  the  brilliant  ball-room,  her 
mantle  trailing  behind  her,  with  wild,  white  face,  dilated 
eyes  and  outstretched  arms. 


848  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

"George!  George!"  she  cried,  "save  me!  help  me  I 
forgive  me  ! " 

He  was  standing  at  a  little  distance,  bending  over  the 
chair  of  his  hostess  and  a  group  of  gay  girls.  At  that 
wild  cry  he  sprang  forward  ;  but,  before  lie  conld  catch 
her,  she  had  reeled  blindly  forward  and  fallen  in  a  dead 
faint  at  his  feet. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

IS  THE   SICK   ROOM. 

At  Golden  Willows  Mrs.  George  Barstone  lay  very  ill, 

and  in  Millford  gossip  was  rife  as  to  the  mysterious  cause 
of  that  illness.  A  lady  cannot  quit  a  gay  party,  absent 
herself  for  half  an  hour,  and  rush  in  at  the  expiration  of 
that  period,  screaming  wildly,  and  fainting  dead  away, 
without  exciting  considerable  comment.  It  had  eked  out 
before  now  that  Mrs.  Barstone  had  been  a  changed  per- 
son ever  since  her  marriage.  She  had  returned  from  her 
bridal  tour  a  haggard,  careworn  woman,  who  had  left  a 
happy  blooming  bride.  Who  was  to  blame  ?  Not  George 
— surely — the  sweetest  temper,  the  kindest  heart  in  the 
place.  Was  there  some  secret  in  Miss  Wayne's  past  life, 
and  was  it  remorse  that  was  wearing  her  to  a  shadow  ? 
People  talked  in  Millford,  and  up  at  Golden  Willows  the 
object  of  all  the  clatter  lay  in  her  darkened  room,  tossing 
restlessly  on  a  fevered  pillow. 

They  had  taken  her  home  in  dismay  from  Miss  Gold- 
ham's  party,  still  in  a  state  of  semi-unconsciousness. 
Under  the  care  of  Doctor  Philip  she  had  been  brought 
round  at  last,  and  she  had  started  up  on  her  elbow,  pushed 
her  flowing  hair  back  from  her  face,  and  gazed  wildly 
around.  She  was  in  her  own  room  at  home  ;  there  was 
Fanny,  crying  and  frightened  ;  there  was  George,  pale  as 
a  ghost,  and  beside  her,  holding  a  glass  to  her  lips,  Philip 
Barstone.  As  her  eyes  rested  on  his  face,  a  wild  shriek 
rang  through  the  room,  and  she  would  have  sprung  from 
the  bed  but  that  her  husband  had  caught  her. 

"Take  him  away  !  "  she  cried,  "  take  him  away  !  Oh, 
George  !    It  was  he  who  did  it ! — he  1  he  ! " 


IN  THE  SICK  ROOM.  249 

'I'he  shriek  ended  in  wild  laughter — Magdalen  was  in 
violent  hysterics.  Before  morning  she  was  raving  wildly 
in  delirium,  and  Doctor  Miller,  of  the  town,  had  tai^en 
his  place  by  her  side,  vice  Doctor  Harstone,  dii)ijsed. 

Magdalen  lay  very  ill  for  a  week,  and  Docti^r  Miller 
looked  grave,  and  came  three  times  every  day  to  t^ee  her. 
But  she  was  young  and  strong,  and  the  fever  gave  way 
very  speedily,  and  she  lay  pale  and  prostrate,  but  cinite 
out  of  danger,  in  her  darkened  chamber,  and  very  seldom, 
either  by  night  or  day,  did  that  devoted  husband  of  hers 
quit  her  bedside.  Business  !  what  was  all  the  legal  busi- 
ness on  earth  to  his  darling's  life  ?  lie  forgot  to  eat  or 
sleep — he  grew  almost  as  p:de  and  tliin  as  herself,  in  those 
nine  daysand  nights  during  which  her  life  hung  trembling 
in  the  balance. 

She  knew  it  all,  as  consciousness  and  memory  returned, 
and  she  lay  very  still,  with  closed  eyes,  and  her  wasted 
nands  clasped  in  his.  She  knew  of  all  the  slee{)less  care, 
tne  sorrow  so  deep  in  his  heart  that  no  words  had  ever 
expressed  it — dumb  agony  in  the  faithful  eyes  that  so 
seldom  left  her  face.  She  knew  it  all,  and  slie  remembered, 
with  the  keen  intensity  of  a  sensitive  nature,  the  cruel 
wrong  that  had  been  done  hiin — her  coldness,  her  bitter 
words,  the  misery  she  had  made  him  suffer.  She  realized 
it  all  now,  and  the  slow,  miserable  tears  stole  down  her 
wliite  cheeks,  and  she  turned  her  head  away  from  him — 
and  he  thought  she  slept — tears  of  shame  aTid  remorse. 
On  that  sick  bed  Magdalen  Barstone  learned  to  pray — 
truly,  periiaps,  for  the  first  time.  Death  had  been  very 
lu-fir,  and  in  the  solemn  liglitshe  knew  at  last  how  wicked 
file  had  been — how  sinful  her  vow  of  revenge.  She  hud 
rested  in  her  own  feeble  hands  the  great  attribute  of  the 
!dout  High— vengeance.  She  had  committed  a  crime,  and 
the  penalty  must  be  borne.  George  loved  her  still  ;  but 
how  he  muse  hate  and  despise  her  when  all  became 
known. 

At  the  end  or  the  second  week  Magdalen  was  permitted 
to  sit  np.  George  carried  her  in  his  arms  over  to  the 
cozy  rocker  near  ihe  fire,  his  honest  face  full  of  great  joy. 
March  was  at  its  close  now,  and  going  out  like  a  lion, 
with  high  winds  and  cold,  dreary  rains.  The  contrast 
with  the  dismal  nii-vning  made  her  fire-lit,  jiretty  room, 
seem  trebly  oozy,     (tcoige  placed  the  footstool  under  her 


250  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

feet,  adjusted  her  pillows  and  shawls,  and  looked  at  hei 
as  a  mother  looks  at  her  first-born. 

''  Are  you  quite  comfortable  now,  dear  ?  Is  there  any- 
thing else  I  can  get  you  ?  " 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile  very  sad  to  see. 

"If  I  wanted  the  clouds  out  of  yonder  sky,  you  would 
try  and  get  them  for  me — wouldn't  you,  George  ?  Yes, 
there  is  something  else.     I  want  you  to  forgive  me." 

"  There  can  be  no  such  word  between  yon  and  me,  Mag- 
ialen.     I  have  nothing  to  forgive  ! " 

"  Nothing  !  Nothing  for  all  my  coldness,  my  cruelty, 
my  scornful  words — the  suffering  I  have  made  you  endure 
all  these  weeks  ?  Ah,  George  !  I  can  understand  now 
what  is  meant  by  heaping  coals  of  fire  on  the  wrong-doer's 
head.  Sit  down  here  beside  me,  and  tell  me — to  please 
me,  if  nothing  else — that  you  forgive  me  for  the  unhap- 
piness  of  your  married  life." 

He  took  a  low  stool  beside  her  and  kissed  the  wasted 
hand  that  lay  on  the  arm  of  her  chair. 

"  Out  of  my  heart,  my  darling,  I  forgive  you  !  Only 
be  happy  and  well  and  kind  to  a  poor  fellow  who  loves  yon, 
and  I  will  forget  that  time  has  ever  been  ! " 

She  tried  to  smile  back,  but  a  great  lump  arose  in  her 
throat  and  choked  her.  She  knew  what  was  coming — 
what  was  so  near — the  shame  and  disgrace  and  sorrow  she 
had  no  power  to  avert.  It  was  a  moment  before  she  could. 
master  her  voice  and  speak. 

"  Whatever  the  future  may  bring,  George,  we  will  be 
happy  together,  to-day,  at  least.  It  is  very  sweet  to  be 
petted  and  nursed  and  loved  so  devotedly  as  you  love  me. 
But  I  am  not  worth  it — I  am  not  worthy  of  you  !  No, 
George,  I  never  was  ! " 

"  That  will  do,  Mrs.  Barstone  !  Permit  me  to  be  the 
best  judge  of  my  own  wife's  worthiness  !  As  for  myself, 
I  am  next  door  to  an  angel  ;  but  you  might  spare  a  man's 
modesty,  and  not  cast  it  up  to  him.  Do  you  know  what 
I  am  going  to  do  with  you  when  you  get  well,  Mrs,  B,  ? 
Carry  you  off  for  a  three  months'  tour  through  the 
Southern  and  Western  States,  and  perhaps  to  Canada,  if 
you  behave  yourself." 

His  wife  smiled  a  little,  and  ran  her  fingers  through  his 
clustering  brown  hair. 

**  Yes,  dear,"  she  said,  absently.     She  was  thinking  how 


IN  THE  SICK  ROOM.  251 

to  begin  her  task.  "  George  !  "  she  exclaimed,  abruptly, 
"why  don't  you  ask  me  about  that  night — that  horrible 
night  of  the  party  at  Millford  ?  " 

She  sliudilcred  as  she  spoke,  and  trembled  nervously. 
She  remembered,  with  horror,  how  near  she  jjad  been  to 
that  one  crime  for  which  the  Giver  of  life  has  no  forgive- 
ness. 

"  Because  I'm  not  a  woman,"  the  lawyer  answered, 
"  and  therefore  not  endowed  with  curiosity,  and  because 
you  must  not  talk  much,  and,  above  everything,  are  not 
to  excite  yourself.  It  will  all  come  in  good  time  ;  we 
won't  mind  it  to-day." 

"  Biit  I  had  rather,  George — much  rather.  It  will  not 
excite  me.     It  will  comfort  me  to  tell  you  all  1  may." 

"  All  you  may  ?  Does  that  mean  you  are  not  at  liberty 
to  tell  everything  ?" 

"  Yes — the  mystery  that  has  made  you  so  wretched, 
George,  all  along,  must  be  a  mystery  for'a  short  time  still. 
It  is  the  secret  of  another,  and  I  cannot  disclose  it.  But 
what  I  am  at  liberty  to  tell,  I  will.  George,  on  that  night 
of  the  party  I  discovered  I  liad  done  you  a  great  ami  cruel 
wrong — that  I  had  mistaken  yon  for  another,  and  mis- 
judged you  beyond  reparation,  almost.  That  knowledge 
excited  me  so  much  tiiat  I  fainted  at  your  feet." 

George  looked  rather  puzzled.  It  was  not  the  most 
lucid  explanation  in  the  world,  certainly. 

''Magdalen  !  me  !  Mistaken  me  for  another  ?"  he  re- 
peated. "  Mistaken  me  for  whom  ?  And  what  did  you 
think  I  had  done,  pray  ?  " 

Magdalen  bent  forward,  took  both  his  hands  in  hers, 
and  looked  earnestly  into  his  eyes. 

"  George,  if  I  tell  you  this,  will  you  give  me  your  prom- 
ise never  to  repeat  to  anyone — not  Aunt  Lydia — not 
Fanny — not  a  creature  in  the  worhl — not  your  cuusin  ?  " 

•'Certainly,  Magdalen.     Why  should  I  tell  them  ?" 

"  Because,  dear — I  don't  intend  this  as  a  reproach, 
mind — you  didn't  quite  keep  your  promise  of  secre-^y  in  a 
former  case.  You  told  }our  cousin  all  about  me,  in  New 
York." 

"  He  surprised  it  out  of  me,"  George  said,  penitently. 
*'  He  asked  nie  point  blank  if  your  name  was  not  Allwaril, 
and  he  knew  all  about  your  sister  and  brother.  He  took 
me  so  much  by  surprise,  I  give  you  my  word  that  I  let 


25a  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

him  find  out  almost  before  I  knew  it.  I  have  been  very 
sorry  for  it  since,  I  assure  you  ;  but,  you  see,  yoii  resem- 
ble your  late  sister,  it  appears,  and  he  recognized  your 
resemblance  at  once." 

"It  does  not  matter,"  Magdalen  said,  quietly ;  "but 
what  I  am  going  to  say  to  you  now  does.  He  must  not 
know  it." 

"  He  shall  not !     Trust  me,  Magdalen." 

"  Then,  George,  I  took  you  to  be — Maurice  Langley  ! " 

George  sat  and  stared  at  her,  the  whole  meaning  of  her 
words  not  striking  him  at  once. 

His  blank  face,  even  in  that  moment,  made  Magdalen 
smile. 

"  Gracious  powers  !  took  me  to  be  Maurice  Langley  ! 
Me  the  betrayer  of  yonr  sister — the  tempter  of  your 
brother  !  How,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  wonderful, 
could  you  have  made  such  a  mistake  ?  " 

''  That  is  one  of  the  things  I  may  not  tell  you — it  would 
involve  the  discovery  of  the  real  criminal.  I  thought  so, 
and  only  on  the  night  of  the  party  did  I  find  out  my 
error." 

"  Who  told  you  that  night  ?  " 

"  The — the  person  who  has  been  in  the  habit  of  writing 
to  me  of  late — who  is  here." 

"  Oh  !  Johnstone  !  Well,  I  owe  him  one  good  turn,  at 
least.     How  came  he  to  know  anything  about  it  ?  " 

"  He  has  discovered  Maurice  Langley,  the  real  criminal. 
He  takes  as  much  interest  in  this  matter  as  I  do.  I  told 
you  he  was  a  relative.  It  is  on  this  subject,  and  no  other, 
that  he  has  written  me — that  I  have  met  him  secretly  two 
or  three  times." 

"  Why  didn't  you  have  him  at  the  house  ?  I  never  dis- 
trusted you,  Magdalen ;  but  then,  you  see,  it  looked 
queer,  and  others  might  find  it  out,  and  talk.  And  I 
don't  want  my  wife  talked  about." 

"lam  afraid  you  will  not  be  able  to  prevent  it,  my 
poor  George.  He  was  poor  an'd  ashamed  of  his  poverty. 
He  would  not  have  come.  And  my  vow  obliged  me  to 
meet  him." 

"Oh,  confound  the  vow!"  George  said,  with  an  in- 
ward groan.  "  I  hope  that  won't  crop  up  again."  Then 
aloud  :  "  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  how  you  first  came  to 
mistake  me  for  that  matchless  scoundrel,  of  all  people  ia 


m  THE  SICK  ROOM.  253 

the  world  ?  I  may  have  gone  a  little  awry  in  the  past, 
but,  by  Jove  I  how  you  could  suppose  me  capable  of  such 
crimes,  I  can't  understand.  Come  I  1'!!  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it  !  A  little  before  your  family  misfortunes  I 
was  in  New  York,  a  wild  member  of  a. wild  (•oriij)any  of 
lawless  Bohemians.  1  was  entrusted  by  Aunt  Lvdia  with 
six  hundred  dollars  to  be  paid  over  to  a  person  in  the  city. 
I  got  to  drinking  and  gambling — led,  I  am  bound  to  say 
in  self-defense,  by  others.  1  got  deeply  involved  in  debts 
of  honor,  as  they  call  them,  and  still  tempted  by  another.  I 
appropriated  Aunt  Lydia's  money.  There  is  the  one  crime 
of  my  life,  Magdalen.  And  I  "have  been  ashamed  of  it 
ever  since.  Aunt  Lydia  forgave  me — bless  her  ! — and  I 
have  done  my  best,  ever  since,  to  atone.  I  kept  it  from 
you — I  thought  it  could  not  concern  you.  Perhaps  I 
should  have  told  you  long  ago  !  " 

**  I  think  I  know  who  your  tempter  was,"  observed  his 
wife;  "his  name  was  Philip  Barstone." 

"  Hush,  my  dear  !  Phil  has  sown  his  wild  oats,  and 
reformed,  too.  And,  speaking  of  Phil,  do  you  know  whose 
picture  that  was  yon  placed  on  the  dining-room  table, 
sometime  ago  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  the  picture  of  his  wife  ! " 

'*Wa3,  you  mean — she's  dead.  In  the  name  of  wonder, 
Magdalen,  how  did  you  find  that  out  ?  " 

"  That  must  be  another  secret.  You  s^^.w  her,  then, 
nnd  knew  her  ?  '" 

*'  I  never  knew  her,  and  I  only  saw  ^er  once,  when  he 
pointed  her  out  on  the  street  to  me.  Very  few  ever  knew 
of  that  foolish  marriage.  How  yor  ame  by  your  myster- 
ious knowledge  is  a  puzzler.  Y'*i  must  not  tell  Fanny  ; 
he  wants  her  kept  in  the  dar'-..  ''  ery  wrong,  I  think, 
but  that's  his  business." 

There  was  a  brief  pause. 

"You  know  now,  (Jeorge.'  ^-lagdalen  resumed,  "the 
Reason  of  my  coldness  and  «'';ro*  trouble,  the  cause  of  my 
meeting  that — that  num.  an'^  receiving  his  letters.  1 
wronged  you,  and  I  ask  yon '  >ardon  from  the  bottom  of 
m^  heart! " 

'*  You  have  it  from  the  jottom  of  mine  I  "  and  he  kissed 
her  tenderly.  "  But  it  was  not  fair,  Magdalen  ;  yon 
should  have  accused  me  openly,  and  let  me  clear  myself. 
You  said,  a  moment  ago    yon  had  found  the  true  Maurice 


S54  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

Langley ;  will  you  tell  me  who  he  is,  or  is  this  a  third 
secret  ?" 

"  It  is  a  secret.  We  have  found  him,  and  he  shall  be 
made  to  atone  for  the  past !  It  is  too  late  to  draw  back 
now.  I  am  bound  by  a  vow  I  must  keep.  Eemember, 
George,  if  in  the  future  you  are  disposed  to  blame  me  very 
much,  that  I  warned  you.  I  told  you  before  our  marriage 
of  my  vow,  of  the  purpose  of  my  life — and  that  nothing, 
not  even  a  husband's  love  and  devotion,  should  stand  be- 
tween me  and  my  vengeance.  Try  and  recall  that  when 
I  denounce  my  great  enemy." 

George  looked  very  grave,  very  much  troubled. 

"  You  have  found  him,  and  it  is  your  intention  to  de- 
nounce him  ?  Does  that  mean  you  will  take  retribution 
in  your  own  hands,  or  that  you  will  yield  him  up  to  the 
law  ?  " 

"To  the  law,  of  course.  What  could  I  do,  poor,  weak 
woman  like  me  ?  " 

"  Weak  bodily,  perhaps,  but  terribly  strong  in  this  re- 
lentless purpose.  And  how  will  the  law  avenge  you  ? 
He  has  done  your  sister  and  brother  great  wrong  ;  but,  as 
I  told  you  before,  that  revenge  does  not  place  him  within 
reach  of  the  law." 

*'Iam  aware  of  that,"  Magdalen  said,  in  a  somber 
voice  ;  "it  is  not  of  those  crimes  he  will  be  accused.  In 
his  past  life  there  lies  another,  known  but  to  myself  and 
one  other — a  crime  for  which  many  years'  imprisonment 
and  life-long  disgrace  must  atone.  For  that  crime  he  will 
be  denounced  and  given  up  to  the  law." 

George  arose,  very  much  agitated. 

"Magdalen!  Magdalen!  what  is  it  you  are  about  to 
do  ?  This  man  deserves  his  doom,  no  doubt,  but  let 
yours  not  be  the  hand  to  wreak  it.  Crime  should  not  be 
hidden  from  punishment ;  but  you — my  gentle  Magdalen, 
my  cherished  wife — for  you  to  turn  Nemesis,  and  work 
the  ruin  of  any  man — oh,  my  love  !  my  love  !  for  my  sake, 
desist  ! " 

"  I  have  vowed,"  Magdalen  answered,  in  the  same 
gloomy  tone. 

"An  impulsive,  girlish,  romantic  act,  not  only  foolish 
in  the  doing,  but  sinful  in  the  keeping.  Think  of  the 
notoriety  for  you — how  you  will  be  dragged  through  a 
trial — through  newspapers,  oyer  the  length  and  breadth  of 


m  THE  SICK  ROOM.  255 

the  land  !  Oh,  Magdalen,  stop  and  think,  while  there  is 
yet  time." 

"  There  is  no  longer  time  ;  the  power  to  desist  has 
passed  from  me,  George  ! "  she  cried,  starting  up,  **  let 
me  tell  you  one  other  secret.  The  man  who  writes  to  me — 
whom  I  meet — whose  alias  is  Johnstone — ^is  my  brother  ! 
my  brotlier,  free  from  j)rison  before  our  marriage,  and 
bent  on  revenge.  It  was  he  who  discovered  all  this  ;  it  is 
he  who  will  denounce  Maurice  Langley — not  I  I  " 

George  Barstone  drew  a  long  breath  of  intense  relief. 
Magdalen  was  one  thing  ;  Magdalen's  brother  was  quite 
another. 

"Oh,  so  he  is  the  avenger!"  George  said;  ''that's 
quite  a  different  thing.  I  shouldn't  mind  helping  him 
myself,  only  it  will  be  an  ugly  business  dragging  your 
domestic  troubles  before  the  public.  May  I  ask  what  is 
t,he  crime  of  which  your  brother  will  accuse  him  ?" 

"  Murder  !"  Magdalen  said,  in  a  low,  awe-struck  tone. 
-'  A  most  foul  and  unnatural  murder.  Oh,  George  !  spare 
me — I  have  told  you  all  1  may  tell — let  us  talk  of  this  no 
more.     Soon — very  soon — you  will  know  all." 

Iler  look  and  manner  were  so  wild  that  George  grew 
alarmed.  He  hastily  replaced  her  in  her  seat  and  strove 
to  soothe  her.  "  Certainly,  we  will  cease  to  speak  of  it ; 
only  tell  me,  is  your  brotlier  still  in  Millford  ?" 

*'  He  is,  I  have  every  reason  to  believe." 

"  And  may  I  not  see  him,  Magdalen — my  wife's  only 
brother  ?     I  may  be  able  to  advise  him — to  help  him." 

"  Not  for  worlds  !  "  she  said.  "  You  don't  know  what 
you  ask.  There  is  Fanny's  rap  at  the  door,  George.  Go 
and  leave  me  for  a  little — you  have  been  in  this  close  room 
all  day.     And  mind,  all  tins  is  a  secret  between  us." 

"Inviolable!"  He  stooped  and  kissed  her.  "  I  wish 
you  could  trust  me  fully,  Magdalen.  When  will  the  day 
come  when  there  will  be  no  more  secrets  between  us  ?  " 

"  Very  soon — very  soon  now.  Rest  easy,  George.  Be- 
fore the  end  of  two  weeks  you  will  know  all." 

"  All  ?''  he  said,  abruptly. 

"All!" 

"  Thank  heaven  for  that." 

Madalen  trembled  at  that  fervent  thanksgiving. 

"  If  he  only  knew  !  "  she  thought — "  if  he  only  knew  !" 

A  moment  later  and  Fanny  was  in  the  room,  voluble  in 


358  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

her  inquiries  regarding  the  patient's  health  ;  and  Georg« 
with  rather  a  rueful  face,  went  out  into  the  wet  March 
morning  for  a  smoke  and  a  constitutional. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

BEFORE   THE    WEDDIKG. 

Mr.  George  Barstone  might  be  very  anxious  for  the 
recovery  of  his  wife,  but  he  was  not  one  whit  more  anx- 
ious than  one  other  person  at  Golden  Willows — Miss 
Winters.  If  Mrs.  Barstone  saw  fit  to  have  a  tedious  ill- 
ness, or  to  die,  she  must,  in  common  decency,  postpone 
her  wedding — and  which  of  us  would  like  to  postpone  our 
wedding  ?  Fanny  was  a  great  deal  too  fond  of  Phil  and  too 
eager  to  be  off  upontliat  delightful  wedding  trip — "  to  the 
place  all  good  Americans  go  when  they  die."  Philip  had 
his  own  private  reasons,  also — very  different,  indeed — for 
dreading  delay. 

Philip  Barstone  was  Maurice  Langley,  and,  ever  since 
the  night  of  the  party,  he  knew  his  cousin's  wife  had 
known  it.  He  was  not  a  cowardly  man,  but  from  the  first 
time  he  had  seen  her  he  had  a  superstitious  dread  of  his 
cousin's  wife.  She  had  come  upon  him,  with  her  youth- 
ful beauty,  her  golden  hair,  and  her  blue  eyes,  like  a 
ghost  that  first  night  ;  like  the  ghost  of  the  girl  he  had 
done  to  death.  He  knew  of  the  purpose  of  her  life — he 
understood  the  mistake  she  had  made  in  confounding  him 
with  George — he  knew  that  the  man  she  met  in  New  York 
and  in  Millford  was  her  brother,  whom  he  had  made  a  felon. 
He  knew  that  the  instant  she  discovered  him  she  would 
denounce  him,  and  then  adieu  to  all  hope  for  Fanny  and 
her  fortune.  Fanny  was  devotedly  and  sentimentally  fond 
of  him,  and  not  over  wise,  but  Fanny  was  a  pure-hearted 
girl,  also,  who  would  shrink  from  so  base  a  villain  as  he. 
He  never  dreaded,  for  an  instant,  that  the  darker  secret 
which  lay  in  his  life  was  in  the  possession  of  brother  and 
sister.  Had  he  known  the  truth,  indeed  he  would  have 
seen  how  deeply  he  had  reason  to  fear  her. 

Philip  Barstone  had  been  a  thoroughly  bad  and  un- 
principled man — a  drunkard,  a  gambler,  a  libertine.  Willie 


BEFORE  THE  WEDDING.  267 

Allward  was  not  the  only  youth  whose  feet  he  had  first 
led  into  the  road  to  ruin,  nor  were  Laura  Allward  and 
Caroline  Reed  the  only  women  whose  lives  he  had  blasted. 

That  was  all  past  now,  and  he  had  reformed.  Yes,  but 
through  no  remorse  for  his  crimes,  through  no  horror  of 
his  own  guilt.  Villainy  had  proved  a  losing  game,  and, 
inwardly  cursing  his  luck,  he  lunl  taken  to  honesty  as  the 
best  policy,  and  at  heart  was  as  evil  as  ever.  The  hour  of 
fruition  had  come,  after  long  waiting,  and  a  fortune  was 
within  his  grasp. 

He  might  leave  the  country  and  in  far-off  Paris  enjoy 
life,  after  his  views,  to  his  heart's  content,  always  suppos- 
ing his  identity,  as  Maurice  Langley,  were  not  discovered 
until  after  the  wedding  day. 

"A  fig  for  her  then,"  he  thought.  **  Fanny  will  be 
mine,  and  her  fortune,  which  is  the  chief  consideration, 
beyond  all  power  of  yours,  my  tall,  handsome  Mrs.  Bar- 
stone." 

But  now  he  was  sure  she  had  discovered  the  real  culprit 
He  understood  that  wild  cry  for  forgiveness  to  George — the 
horror  with  which  she  had  turned  from  him.  She  knew 
all.  Would  she  suffer  him  to  wed  Fanny,  and  hold  her 
peace  ?  When  the  fever  was  at  its  highest  he  had  ardently 
hoped  that  either  life  or  reason  might  go,  but  when  both 
came  back  he  nerved  himself  to  face  the  worst. 

"  Fanny  is  a  fool,"  he  mused,  '*  and  would  lay  her  head 
under  my  feet  if  I  asked  her.  Who  knows  ?  She  may 
marry  me  in  spite  of  ;dl — in  spite  of  Aunt  Lydia's  interdic- 
tion. If  I  am  accused,  it  is  of  no  use  denying.  They  can 
bring  incontestable  proofs,  but  if  I  can  persuade  Fanny  to 
run  away  with  me,  what  will  it  signify  ?  Wliy  the  deuce 
couldn't  she  die,  like  better  women  ?" 

Doctor  Phil  devoted  himself  more  than  ever  to  his 
betrothed,  and  pushed  on  the  preparations  for  the  wedding 
with  feverish  haste.  It  was  fixed  for  the  fifteenth  of  April, 
and  it  was  now  the  last  week  of  March. 

"Mrs.  George  won't  die,  Fanny,"  he  said,  **  not  a  fear 
of  it,  and  we  won't  postpone  our  inarriage  nor  the  prepara- 
tions. Keep  the  dressmakers  and  milliners  at  work  all 
the  same.     There  shall  be  no  postponement  in  our  case." 

"1  hope  not  I  am  sure,"  Fanny  responded,  with  a  very 
serious  face.  "  It's  so  dreadfully  unlucivy,  yon  knmv,  Phil. 
There  was  Magdalen.     Her  wedding  was  postponed,  and 


S58  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

see  what  comes  of  it.  She  has  been  just  as  miserable  ever 
since  As  ever  she  can  be.  And  now  she's  got  a  mysterious 
brain  fever — nobody  knows  why.  I  think  if  I  lost  you, 
Phil,  I  should  have  a  brain  fever  too.  They  always  have 
one  in  books,  you  know — such  nice,  interesting  complaints 
— brain  fever,  or  throbbing  headache,  or  fall  dead,  like  a 
flash,  of  JK'.'irt  ilisease.  or  pine  away  in  a  decline,  and  die 
with  an  unnatural  ilu8h  upon  their  clieeks  and  unnatural 
luster  in  their  eyes.  You  never  hear  of  a  lieroine  having 
toothache  or  smallpox,  or  yellow  jaundice,  or  those  nasty 
complaints.  I  am  certain  I  should  have  a  brain  fever  if  I 
lost  you,  Phil." 

"  Are  you  quite  certain  you  love  me  enough  for  that, 
Fanny  ?  "  Doctor  Phil  asked,  with  a  pathetic  glance  of 
his  dark  eyes.  '*  I  wonder  what  you  really  would  do  and 
dare  for  my  sake  ?  " 

"  Anything — everything  !  I'd  go  tlirough  fire  and  water 
for  your  sake,  you  know  I  would,  Philip — tliough  what 
good  going  through  fire  and  water  would  do  any  one  I 
can't  see.  I've  loved  you — oh,  for  ages  and  ages — and  I 
would  die — yes,  I'd  drown  myself,  or  take  laudanum — if  I 
lost  you  now.  But  there  is  no  fear  of  that,  is  there,  Phil  ?  " 
his  devoted  slave  inquired,  nestling  under  his  wing. 

Doctor  Phil  put  his  arm  around  her  and  gave  her  a 
kiss. 

"  ^STo  fear,  I  hope  ;  but  who  can  tell.  Fan  ?  There  i.=: 
many  a  slip,  and  I  liave  enemies  who  would  injure  me  if 
they  could.  Suppose,  for  instance,  some  one  came  and 
told  you  I  had  behaved  very  badly  in  the  past — I  have 
sown  my  wild  oats,  you  know,  my  darling,  like  othc 
fellows — ^suppose  they  told  you  very  shocking  stories  aboui 
that  past,  what  would  you  do  ?  " 

"  Slaj)  their  faces,  if  I  could  ! "  answered  Miss  Winters 
promptlv,  "  and  not  believe  a  v/ord  of  it." 

Phil  h'alf  laughed. 

"  But  suppose  the  wicked  stories  to  be  true — suppose  I 
couldn't  disprove — what  then  ?  " 

*'  Then  I  should  tell  them  to  mind  their  own  business, 
and  forgive  you  and  never  think  about  it  again,  so  that 
you  were  always  good  to  me  and  fond  of  me.  I  love  you 
so  dearly,  Phil,  that  I  could  forgive  you  anything,  except- 
ing being  false  to  me." 

"  You  are  quite  sure,  Fanny — anything  ?  " 


BEFORE  THE  WEDDING.  259 

"  Well,  of  course,  excepting  murder,  or  something  awful 
like  that,  which  is  ridicuh^us  to  think  about.  Only  love 
me,  and  keep  true  to  me,  and  uU  the  slanders  in  the  world 
will  not  part  us." 

The  gray  darkness  that  shadowed  the  young  man's  sallow 
face  at  times  fell  on  it  as  slie  spoke,  and  lie  released  lier 
suddenly  and  wiilked  over  to  one  of  tlie  windows. 

^lurder  !  The  faces  of  a  woman  and  a  child  arose  l)e- 
fore  him  as  vividly  as  he  ever  had  seen  them.  The  sun- 
lighted  drawing-room  faded  away.  lie  saw  a  niiserable 
hut,  a  glimmering  tallow  candle,  a  man  in  drunken  frenzv, 
a  pale  woman,  with  a  sleeping  child  in  her  arms,  lie 
saw  the  blind  rage  of  the  man,  the  horrible  blow  that 
felled  mother  and  child  ;  he  heard  again  that  wild,  deep 
sliriek,  and  the  cold  dro])S  stood  thick  on  his  ghastly  brow. 
Murder  !  The  white  face  of  Laura  Allward — white  with 
wonuui's  utmost  woe,  as  she  had  stood  before  him  that 
lust  night — came  back  as  plainly  as  in  that  very  hour. 
Caroline  and  her  child  slept  in  one  grave  ;  Laura  Allward 
lay  under  the  waving  grass  and  clover  in  her  distant 
country  home.  Oh,  God  !  how  black  and  awful  was  the 
record  that  lay  behind  him  I  Murder  I  Xul  one  murder, 
but  three  ! 

Fanny  followed  him  to  the  window  and  looked  up  in 
his  face  with  anxious  eyes. 

"  How  pale  you  are,  Pliil  I  What's  the  matter  ?  What 
makes  you  say '^such  things  to-day?  Oh  !"  clasping  her 
hands  tragically,  "nothing  is  about  to  liappen,  surely — 
nothing  is  going  to  part  us  now  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  Philip  Barstone  said,  resolutely  setting  his 
teeth  and  turning  to  her — '*  nolhing,  Fanny,  so  that  you 
love  me  and  trust  me.  We  will  be  married  on  the  fifteenth 
of  April,  in  spite  of  the  world  ami  all  therein  I  By  the 
bye,  I  have  written  to  a  friend  of  mine  in  New  York  to 
come  down  and  be  groomsman  on  the  occasion.  You  have 
heard  of  him,  I  dare  say.  lie  is  a  novelist— tremendous 
fellow  with  pen  and  inkstand.     His  name  is  Tompkins." 

"  Oh,  Phil  1  "  cried  Fanny,  "  An  author — a  real  author 
— and  that  author  Mr.  Tonipkins  !  Why,  I'd  ^'wc  all  the 
world  to  see  him  !  His  stories  are  the  lovelu'st  I  ever 
read.  But  I  won't  dare  to  speak  to  him,  and  I'm  sure  he 
won't  deign  to  look  at  poor  little  me.  A  man  whose  ideal 
is  so  perfectly  lovely,  so  tall,  so  magnificent,  so  majestic, 


260  MAGDALEN'S  VOW, 

mnst  despise  such  a  commonplace  creature  as  I  am. 
What's  he  like  ?  Very  tall  and  very,  very  handsome, 
with  great  solemn  hlack  eyes  and  long  hair — isn't  he  ?" 

Phil  laughed. 

"Tompkins  is — no,  wait  until  you  see  him.  Here's  his 
answer — perliaps  you  would  like  to  see  it  ?" 

Fanny  seized  it  eagerly.  It  was  only  a  half  sheet  of  note- 
paper  and  written  in  a  great  slap-dash,  atrociously  unread- 
able writing  : 

Dear  Phil  :— 

Got  yours — wish  you  joy.  Any  more  heiresses  where 
she  came  from  ?  Will  be  down,  of  course.  Look  for  me 
next  week.     Yours,  etc.,  R.  T. 

Miss  Winters  was  a  little  disappointed.  There  were  two 
big  blots,  and  for  an  eminent  author  there  wasn't  much  in 
this  epistle.  And  then  Phil  went  out  to  saunter  away  to 
the  town,  and  Fanny  went  up  to  Magdalen's  room. 

It  was  the  young  doctor's  habit  to  visit  Millford  every 
day  and  keep  a  sharp  lookout  for  Willie  Allward  ;  but  he 
never  saw  him.  Willie  remained  within  doors  until  after 
nightfall,  when  he  took  Caroline  out  for  a  little  walk, 
quietly  biding  his  time. 

George  left  the  sick  room  as  Fanny  entered  and  Miss 
Winters,  taking  his  vacated  stool,  told  the  invalid  wife  all 
about  her  trousseau,  in  active  preparation,  of  the  day  they 
had  appointed,  of  the  coming  of  the  celebrated  Mr.  Richard 
Tompkins,  and  even  of  Phil's  mysterious  remarks  that 
morning. 

"  I  wonder  what  he  meant,  Magdalen  ?  Perhaps  he 
didn't  mean  anything.  I  don't  half  understand  Phil  at 
times  ;  but  I  think  I  like  him  all  the  better  for  that. 
He's  been  dreadful  wild  in  the  past,  I'm  afraid,"  said 
Fanny,  with  great  relish  ;  "  but  do  you  know  I  like  wild 
young  men  !  Lord  Byron  was  wild,  and  I  adore  him — 
and  Edgar  Poe  used  to  get  tipsy,  they  say.  When  we're 
married,  perhaps  he'll  tell  me  all  about  it." 

"  Fanny,"  said  Magdalen,  putting  the  question  point 
blank,  "  did  you  ever  see  that  odd  mark  George  has  tat- 
tooed upon  his  left  arm  ?  " 

"Why,  yes,"  answered  Fanny,  at  once,  "of  course  I 
have  !    Phil's  got  another  exactly  like  it  ! " 


BEFORE  THE  WEDDING.  261 

•'Indeed  !     On  the  same  arm,  and  exactly  like  it  ?" 

**  Pre-cisely  the  snnie  I  They  both  had  tliein  done,  when 
boys,  by  ii  sailor  at  iMillford.  I've  seen  them  and  beard 
Aunt  Lydia  tell  how  angry  slie  was.      Why  ?  '' 

'*  Oh,  nothing — the  thouglit  struck  me.  So  Dr.  Bar- 
stone  has  been  talking  of  losing  you,  has  he  ?  Would  it 
make  you  very,  very  unhappy,  Fanny  ?  " 

"  I  should  die  I  "  answered  Eanny  solemnly. 

"  No  ! "  said  Magdalen  ;  '*  no,  Fanny,  we  don't  die  so 
easily  ;  and  it  is  only  in  novels  that  j)eople  break  their 
hearts,  or  their  blood  vessels,  and  fall  dead  with  trouble. 
You'd  lose  him  and  live,  and  forget  him  altogether,  by 
and  by,  in  the  love  of  a  hotter  man  I  " 

•'  A  better  man  !     Mrs.  Barstone,  how  dare  you  !" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Fanny.  He  owns  himself  he  has 
been  wicked  and  so  do  you.  If  he  was  shown  to  you  as  a 
villain — a  villain  steeped  in  crime  to  the  lips — I  am  only 
putting  a  case,  remember — would  you  not  scorn  and  cast 
him  off  and  forget  him  ?  '' 

*'  Oh,  dear,  no  I  I  don't  think  so — I  couldn't,  yon  know, 
I  tell  you  I  should  die,  or  go  mad  if  I  lost  him  I  I  love 
him  with  all  my  heart,  and  couldn't  live  without  him  ! 
Don't  let  us  talk  about  such  horrid  things  I  I  shall  be 
dreaming  all  night  that  he  is  a  P]ugene  Aram,  and  that  he 
has  been  torn  from  me,  and  taken  to  prison  witii  *  gyves  up- 
on his  wrists.'  You'll  be  down-stairs  to-morrow,  Magdalen, 
I  suppose  ?  " 

Magdalen  said  yes,  and  kept  her  word.  She  came  down- 
stairs the  following  evetiing  on  fJeorge's  arm — George 
looking  so  unspeakably  proud  and  happy — and  was  in- 
stalled in  the  great  cushioned  chair  before  the  fire. 

George  lingered,  looking  at  her  with  admiring  eyes. 
How  fair,  how  pure,  how  sweet  she  looked,  ho  thought,  in 
her  llowing  white  robes  and  freshly  curled  amber  hair — the 
old  tender  smile  for  him  back  again  on  the  dear  faee. 
But  all  the  tender  light  vanished  presently  when  Piiilip 
Barstone  came  in  and  approached  her  chair,  with  out- 
stretched hand  and  ready  words  of  greeting  upon  his  facile 
lips. 

'•  My  dear  Mrs.  Barstone  I  My  dear  Magdalen  I  I  am 
more  than  rejoiced  to  see  yon  among  us  once  more.  The 
house  has  boon  like  a  tomb  and  you  have  been  sadly  missed 
by  more  than  George  !  " 


262  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

MagdaK'ii's  eyes  flashed — flashed  blue  fire  upon  the  auda- 
cious miscreiuit.  Slie  glanced  at  the  outstretched  hand 
and  turin  il  her  back  upon  him  in  dead  silence. 

In  spite  of  himself  a  livid  red  flush  crossed  his  sallow 
face  and  the  gleam  in  his  dark  eyes  was  an  evil  gleam  to 
see.  George  guzcd  blankly  and  Fanny,  in  the  doorway, 
flashed  indignant  fire  upon  the  invalid,  who  thus  deliber- 
ately insulted  her  demi-god.  But  no  one  spoke  and  the 
pause  which  followed,  Philip  Barstone  might  well  re- 
member to  the  day  of  his  death  ! 

''  Come  and  practise  '  Limerick  Eaces,'  "  his  betrothed 
said.  "  Ella  Goldham,  her  brother  and  a  few  other  friends 
are  coming  to-night.     Come  !  " 

She  opened  the  piano,  played  the  symphony  and  Philip 
crossed  over,  mechanically,  and  stood  beside  her.  His  face 
had  changed  again  to  the  dull  gray  pallor  it  took  at 
times,  and  he  looked  quite  ghastly  in  the  glimmer  of  the 
lamp  light.  She  knew  all  then  I  All  !  'J'hat  meant  she 
knew  him  for  Maurice  Langley — the  destroyer  of  her 
sister  and  brother.  Not  only  that,  but  knowing  that,  he 
had  great  reason  to  fear  her  now. 

''  The  game  with  Fanny  has  been  too  easy,"'  he  thought. 
"  There  can  be  no  such  luck  in  store  for  me.  I  have  held 
winning  cards  ere  now,  but  the  game  has  never  been  mine  ; 
somethhig  will  happen  before  the  wedding  day.  Let  her 
take  care  !     If  she  balks  me  in  this,  let  her  take  care  !  " 

The  expected  guests  arrived  by  the  time  Philip  had  sung 
his  song  twice  and  a  very  pleasant  evening  followed. 
Through  it  all  Philip  watched  his  cousin's  wife  with  furtive, 
ceaseless  eyes  ;  but  he  never  approached  or -addressed  her. 
She  knew  him  as  he  was.  Of  all  those  present  who  had 
known  him  from  boyhood  up,  this  pale,  golden-haired  in- 
valid alone  knew  him  for  the  villain  he  was. 

Magdalen  retired  early  and  kept  her  room  until  late 
next  day.  When  she  descended  to  the  drawing-room,  near 
noon,  she  found  it  deserted  by  all  save  Miss  Winters. 

Fanny  was  seated  at  a  table  near  the  window,  bending 
with  pursed-up  mouth  and  knitted  brows  over  a  sketch  in 
water  colors.     She  looked   up  despondently  as  Magdalen 

came  in.  .    t  .. 

"  It's  horrid  !  "  broke  out  the  artist,  looking  vindictive- 
ly at  her  own  production— a  gentleman  in  a  fly-away 
doak  and  a  cocked  hat,  with  the  whites  of  his  eyes  up- 


BEFORE  THE  WEDDING.  263 

rolled  in  an  alarming  manner,  striking  a  guitar  beneath  a 
lady's  lattice.  '*  It's  horrid  !  and  I  wanted  it  to  look  par- 
ticularly nice,  that  Piiil  might  see  how  I've  improved. 
My  figures  never  will  stand  steady  on  their  legs  as  yours  do, 
Magdalen,  aiul  this  grass  is  tiie  coh^r  of  brown  paper  ;  and 
I  don't  believe  there  ever  was  a  sky  as  purple  as  tliis  is  ! 
It's  no  use — it's  like  my  usual  fate — everything  goes  wrong 
witii  me  ! '' 

She  pushed  the  work  of  art  away  with  an  impatient  sigh 
and  looked  out  at  the  drear  and  dismal  morning. 

"  I  used  to  think  it  was  a  lovely  thing  to  be  unhappy," 
pursued  Miss  Winters.  "I  used  to  think  there  was  no- 
thing on  earth  so  nice  as  to  be  haughty  and  handsome  and 
miserable,  like  the  heroine  of  a  novel.  I  ain't  handsome 
and  I  can't  be  haughty,  though  I've  tried  hard  enough 
before  now,  goodness  knows  ;  but  I'm  just  as  miserable 
as  I  can  be,  and  1  don't  take  the  least  comfort  in  it.  It's 
all  Piiil's  fault  !  I  don't  know  what's  come  over  him. 
He's  as  silent  and  sulky  when  we're  alone  together,  aa 
though  he  were  a  Manfred,  or  a  Corsair,  or  something.  If 
he  had  a  secret  sorrow  or  a  murder  on  his  mind,  he  couldn't 
be  more  grumpy.  And,  in  books,  grumi)y  men  are  so  nice  ! 
There  was  Mr.  Rochester,  you  know,  Magdalen,  just  as 
hateful  as  he  could  be,  and  wlio  could  help  loving  him  ? 
But  it's  different  in  real  life,  and  I  don't  believe  Phil  cares 
for  me  a  bit.  It's  just  my  fortune  he  wants  :  and,  I  dare 
say,  I  shall  be  a  neglected,  wretched  and  broken-iiearted 
wife  as  soon  as  we're  married." 

Dr.  Barstone's  betrothed  produced  Iter  handkerchief  aiul 
snuffed  a  little  behind  it,  but,  after  all,  tiiere  was  a  dismal 
sort  of  enjoyment  in  thus  reviewing  iier  woes. 

She  was  engaged  to  the  "idol  of  her  soul,"  so  Miss 
Winters  called  him,  mentally,  aiul  lie  snubbed  her  unmer- 
cifully, at  times,  and  she  was  unliajipy  and  a  heroine  at 
last. 

Miss  Winters  ])lumed  herself  ratlicr  on  tlie  distinction, 
and  took  Edith  Dombeyish  airs,  and  posed  herself  a  la  Me- 
dora,  waiting  broken-hearted  for  (-'onrad,  wiiile  that 
wretched  man  enjoyeil  hiniself  witli  (iulnarc. 

Magdalen  listened  wearily.  She  had  her  own  troubles, 
many  and  heavy,  but  she  was  always  gentle  and  patient 
with  Fanny. 

"  It's  only  your  fancy,  dear,"  she  said.     **  Doctor  Philip 


264  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

is  very  fond  of  you,  I  dare  say,  though  it  may  not  be  his 
way  to  show  it.     He  sat  by  your  side  all  last  evening/' 

"Oh,  he  did!"  Fanny  Retorted.  ''Much  good  that 
did  me  !  Do  you  know  who  he  looked  at,  from  the  first 
moment  he  sat  down  ?     You  !     Yes,  Mrs.  George  Barstone 

you  !     And  it's  my  belief  he's  a  great  deal  more  in  love 

with  yon  than  with  me.  You  ought  to  hear  all  the  ques- 
tions he  used  to  ask  about  you,  until  I  got  mad  and  re- 
fused to  answer  any  more .  I  have  flirted,  just  as  hard  as 
I  knew  how,  with  Frank  Leigh,  afore  now.  What  did  he 
care  ?  I  don't  believe  he  ever  saw  me.  And  that's  why  I 
am  so  dreadfully  wretched,"  concluded  Miss  Winters,  again 
producing  her  handkerchief.  "  I  don't  so  much  mind  his 
being  crusty  and  snappish,  and  silent,  and  mopish,  but  I 
do  mind  his  falling  in  love  with  a  married  woman,  and  that 
woman  his  own  cousin-in-law  !  How  do  1  know  he  hasn't 
told  you  he  loved  you,  and  very  likely  asked  you  to  elope 
With  him  ?  He'd  do  it  as  soon  as  look  !  Why  else  should 
you  insult  him  as  you  did  last  night  ?  You  wouldn't  shake 
hands  with  him— yon  wouldn't  answer  him— you  looked  at 
him  with  what  books  call  '  ineffable  scorn'— and  you  gave 
him  the  cold  shoulder.  People  don't  treat  their  husband's 
first  cousin  like  that  for  nothing  !  He's  in  love  with  you, 
Mrs.  Magdalen  Barstone,  and  von  know  it  ;  and  you  both 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourselves  !  What  would  George 
say,  I  should  like  to  know,  to  such  goings  on  ?" 

In  spite  of  herself  Magdalen  had  to  laugh  at  the  absurd 
mistake  and  Fanny's  indignant  face. 

"  My  dear  Fanny,  what  a  supremely  silly  idea  !  Don't 
you  know  how  insulting  to  me  your  horrible  accusation 
is  ?  Philip  Barstone  and  I  have  very  little  love  for  each 
other,  I  assure  you.  Ah,  Fanny,  if  I  could  only  make 
you  listen  to  reason— if  I  only  dared  tell  you— but  what  is 
the  use  ?  Every  word  that  I  say  you  will  repeat  to  hmi 
five  minutes  after  ;  and,  if  he  told  you  white  was  black, 
you  would  believe  him,  in  spite  of  your  own  eyesight. 
Don't  you  know,  you  foolish  child,  that  he  is  only  marry- 
ing you  for  your  fortune  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  know  it  ! "  cried  the  heiress,  shrilly. 
"  Didn't  he  tell  me  so  ?  People  can't  live  on  air,  even  if 
they  are  married  to  their  soul's  idol ;  and  if  he  had  noth- 
ing, and  I  had  less, 


BEFORE  THE  WEDDING.  266 

Would  tliat  flame  tliat  we're  so  rich  in 

Light  a  lire  iu  tlie  kitchen. 

Or  the  httle  god  of  Love  turn  the  spit,  spit,  spit?' 

Of  course  it  wouldn't !  But,  when  I  came  into  my  for- 
tune, that  was  quite  a  different  tiling.  I  don't  cure  for 
the  money,  lie  might  have  it  and  welcome.  But  I  do 
Avish  he  loved  me  as  I  love  him  I  Sometimes  he's  us  good 
us  he  cun  be,  and  I'm  liap])y  ;  and  then  again  he  turns 
dismal  and  sulky  and  hasn't  a  word  to  fling  at  a  dog. 
And,  if  it's  so  before  marriage,  what  will  it  be  after  ?" 

"What — indeed  I  "  Magdalen  eagerly  said.  "Oh, 
Fanny  !  pause  wliile  there  is  yet  time.  Discard  this  man  ! 
He  is  base  and  mercenary,  and  will  make  you  miserable. 
Send  him  away  and  forget  him.  Show  him  you  have 
proper  womanly  pride  and  sjiirit.  George  is  going  to  take 
me  south.  Come  with  us.  Wait  a  little  and  some  good 
man  who  really  loves  you  for  yourself  will  come  along 
and  make  yon  a  happy  wife.  Don't  marry  Philip  Bar- 
stone  !  He  is  a  bad,  bad  man  !  Oh,  Fanny  !  for  your 
own  sake,  send  him  away  before- " 

Fanny's  round  light-blue  eyes  were  fixed  in  wonder  on 
the  excited  speaker's  face. 

"Well — before  what?"  she  demanded,  suspiciously, 
"  AV'hat  do  yoii  know  of  him  ?  Who  told  you  he  was  a 
bad,  bad  man  ?  " 

"I  kiiow  it — that  is  enough.  Give  him  up,  Fanny; 
he  is  unworthy  even  to  touch  your  hand  ! " 

"  Mrs.  George  Barstone,"  said  Miss  Winters,  rising, 
and  swelling  with  dignity,  "enough  upon  this  subject! 
Doctor  Barstone  is  my  betrothed.  Even  from  you,  his 
first  cousin-in-law,  I  cannot  hear  these  disjiaraging  re- 
marks. If  you  ever  repeat  those  words  in  my  presence — 
mine,  his  plighted  wife — I'll  never  speak  to  you  again  as 
long  as  I  live  !  Oh,  good  gracious  I  here  he  comes,  and 
a  strange  gentleman  with  him  !  I'll  bet  you  anything  I" 
clasping  her  hands  and  fiying  to  the  window,  ''  it's  the 
author,  from  New  York  !  But  no,  it  can't  be — he  don't 
look  a  bit  like  an  author." 

It  was,  however.  Doctor  Philip  came  in  and  presented 
a  tall,  light-haired,  light-eyed  gentleman,  in  glasses,  as 
Mr.  Richard  I'ompkins,  of  New  York  City. 

Mr.  Tompkins  was  near-sighted  and  the  glasses  were 


S66  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

the  only  literary  feature  about  him.  He  had  wisps  of 
straw-colored  whiskers  and  a  feeble  mustache  (you  might 
have  counted  the  hairs),  and  he  had  large  ears,  and  a  pug 
nose,  and  a  few  freckles  amid  his  complexion.  And  chis 
was  the  author  of  "  Lady  Rosabella,"  and  '"  The  Bandit's 
Seven  Brides  ! " 

He  bowed  to  the  two  young  ladies,  taking  Magdalen  to 
be  the  doctor's  affianced,  made  the  remark  that  the  day 
was  fine,  and  that  he  hoped  he  saw  them  well, 

Mr.  Tompkins  had  a  great  deal  to  say  for  himself,  in- 
deed, and  kept  the  house  in  a  very  lively  state,  aided  by 
Fanny,  who  fraternized  with  the  gentleman  from  New 
York  at  once.  She  had  not  much  time  to  devote  to  him, 
for  it  was  now  the  first  week  of  April,  and  the  wedding 
day  was  drawing  rapidly  near. 

There  were  two  seamstresses,  with  flying  needles,  in  one 
of  the  upper  rooms,  and  every  morning  Miss  Winters 
drove  into  Millford,  and  returned  with  the  sleigh  freighted 
with  parcels.  If  perfect  happiness  is  ever  to  be  found  on 
earth,  I  think  Fanny's  state,  just  at  this  time,  approached 
it  very  closely. 

It  would  seem  but  natural  that  the  bridegroom  should 
share  this  beatitude.  Was  not  the  dream  of  his  life  about 
to  be  realized  ?  Was  he  not  about  to  marry  an  heiress  ? 
But  ever  since  the  episode  of  the  ambrotype  he  had  known 
no  rest.  What  if  Magdalen  and  her  brother  knew  all — 
all  ?  What  if  the  man  who  had  dashed  into  that  solitary 
cottage,  upon  that  horrible  night,  five  years  ago,  were 
Willie  AUward  ? 

He  had  wondered,  many  times  since,  who  that  man 
could  have  been.  He  had  not  caught  the  least  glimpse 
of  his  face,  and  had  set  him  down  as  some  neighbor,  or 
passing  stranger.  What  if  it  had  been  Willie  Allward, 
and  that  his  cousin's  wife  knew  of  his  hidden  crime,  and 
meant  to  denounce  him  at  the  very  altar  ?  The  cold  dew 
stood  upon  his  brow  at  the  thought ;  it  haunted  him  day 
and  night  ;  he  could  find  no  rest  anywhere.  He  grew 
moody  and  sullen  and  silent,  day  by  day,  and  spent  his 
whole  time  in  watching,  with  eager  eyes,  his  cousin's  wife. 
He  grew  thin  as  a  shadow — the  old,  cynical  smile  never 
appeared  on  his  sallow  face  now — Fanny's  frivolous  prattle 
drove  him  nearly  mad.  If  the  worst  came,  and  he  were 
denounced,  what  then  ?    The  exposure — the  arrest — the 


BEFORE  THE  WEDDING.  267 

trial — the  sentence  !  What  would  that  sentence  be  ?  He 
had  committed  a  double  murder — unpremeditated,  and 
done  in  a  moment  of  drunken  frenzy,  it  is  true,  but  men 
had  been  hanged  for  less.  The  sword  hung  over  his  head, 
and  the  tiiread  that  held  it  was  awfully  frail.  If  ever 
retribution  came  home  to  any  wrong-doer,  it  came  home 
to  Philip  Barstone  in  those  days  of  his  greatest  success. 
Laura  AH  ward's  sister  w:is  hourly  avenging  her  now — he 
dreaded  that  pale,  quiet,  resolute  girl  as  he  had  never 
thought  to  dread  any  one  in  his  life. 

George,  busy  every  day  in  the  town,  and  the  least  sus' 

Sicious  of  mankind  at  any  time,  saw  nothing  of  all  this. 
[r.  Tompkins,  a  student  of  character  by  necessity, 
watched  him,  with  sleepy,  half-closed  eyes,  and  saw  that 
something  was  seriously  wrong,  and  chaffed  his  friend 
upon  the  subject. 

"•  Don't  be  an  ass,  Dick  !  "  was  Doctor  Philip's  reply. 
"All  this  fuss  and  bustle  is  enough  to  try  any  man's 
nerves.  I  wish  to  heaven  tlie  thing  were  all  over  and  that 
a  thousand  leagues  of  the  Atlantic  lay  between  me  and 
this  place  I " 

He  said  it  with  sucli  suppressed  intensity  of  tone  that 
Mr.  Tompkins  eyed  Inm  askance. 

''  It's  something  deeper  than  I  fancied."  he  thought. 
"Are  some  of  his  wild  oats  cropping  up  at  this  unreason- 
able time  of  day.  or  is  it  that  he's  in  love  with  George's 
wife  ?  She's  as  handsome  as  a  picture,  and  as  cold  as  an 
icicle,  and  just  the  sort  of  woman  men  go  mad  for.  He 
watches  her  as  a  cat  does  a  mouse  ;  but  wliether  it's  for 
love  or  hatred,  is  not  so  clear.  One  thing  is  plain  enough 
— she  heartily  dislikes  him  I  " 

The  doctor  certainly  watched  her  with  feverish  eager- 
ness. He  dreaded  strangely  to  see  her  quit  the  house. 
While  she  renuiined  at  home,  passive,  he  felt  a  sort  of 
security  ;  and  she  made  no  attenij)t  to  leave  it. 

She  passed  her  time  with  Miss  Barstone.  or  in  her  own 
apartments.  He  rarely  saw  her.  except  at  table.  She 
wrote  no  letters  ;  she  showed  no  inclination  to  go  to  Mill- 
ford  ;  slie  received  no  more  notes  from  there.  Had  her 
brother  departed  ?  he  wondered.  He  scoured  the  town 
himself,  but  never  came  am-osshim.  Was  it  just  possible, 
after  ail,  that  he  was  alarming  himself  needlessly — that 
they  knew  nothing  of  his  greatest  crime — that  her  possess- 


:m  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

ing  that  picture  was  only  some  wonderful  chance  ?  Oh, 
that  the  wedding  day  were  come  and  gone,  and  this  sus- 
pense at  an  end  ! 

And  Sunday,  the  eleventh  of  April,  came,  and  nothing 
had  happened.  On  Thursday,  the  fifteenth,  the  marriage 
would  take  place,  and  a  few  hours  after,  he  would  be  away 
and  safe.  Would  the  intervening  days  pass  and  nothing 
happen  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

DRAWIIfG  NEAR. 

If  Philip  Barstone  suffered  all  the  tortures  of  terror 
and  suspense  which  guilt  upon  the  brink  of  discovery 
must  ever  suffer,  she  whose  vow  of  vengeance  was  on  the 
verge  of  such  signal  fulfilment  suffered  hardly  less.  Not 
for  his  sake.  Never  for  one  instant,  at  any  time,  did  her 
heart  soften,  with  the  faintest  feeling  of  j)ity  for  him. 
He  deserved  the  worst  that  could  possibly  befall  him,  and 
she  would  not  have  lifted  a  finger  to  save  him.  But 
those  others  who  loved  him — Fanny,  Georgie  and  that 
patient,  womanly  martyr  up-stairs,  whose  life  had  been  so 
full  of  suffering.  How  keenly  they  would  feel  the  shame, 
the  disgrace,  the  exposure  !  how  they  would  hate  her 
when  they  discovered  she  had  been  working  in  the  dark 
all  this  time,  that  she  might  have  told  them  weeks  be- 
fore ;  that  she  had  held  her  peace  and  waited  for  her 
revenge  until  the  very  last  moment.  They  would  never 
forgive  her,  Tlirough  her  Fanny's  life  would  be  blighted, 
and  shame  and  sorrow  fall  upon  their  peaceful  home. 
What  ought  she  do  ?  Go  to  George  and  reveal  all  while 
there  was  yet  time.  She  had  started  up  more  than  once 
with  the  confession  upon  her  lips,  but  ere  the  words  were 
uttered,  the  memory  of  what  Willie  had  said  would  return 
— "  My  curse  will  be  upon  you  if  you  come  between  me 
and  my  revenge " — and  her  sister,  as  she  saw  her  last, 
cold  in  death,  would  arise  before  her,  to  hold  her  back 
from  that  better  course.  And  her  vow — her  vow  was  up- 
on the  eve  of  realization — should  she  break  that  oath  to 
the  dead  and  the  wronged  now  ? 

Philip  Baratone's  keen,  ceaseless  eyes  saw  the  daily  and 


DRAWING  NEAR.  269 

hourly  struggle,  and  more  than  half  understood  it.  She 
knew  all,  aiui  for  George's  sake  she  feared  to  tell.  What 
if,  after  all,  he  were  torturing  himself  for  nothing  ?  What 
if,  for  George's  sake,  she  would  keep  the  secret  to  the 
end  ? 

"  There  are  women  who  can  keep  a  secret,"  he  thought, 
"  and  this  is  one  of  tliem.  She  loves  George  well  enough 
to  commit  any  act  of  self-abnegation  for  his  sake,  if  that 
cursed  brotlier  of  hers  will  only  let  her  alone.  Good  God  ! 
to  think  that  every  ambition  of  my  life  should  be  so  near 
fruition,  and  that  one  word  from  that  pale,  inscrutable 
young  woman  should  have  power  to  end  all  and  send  me 
for  life  to  a  convict's  cell  !  " 

Mr.  Tompkins,  accustomed  to  make  human  nature,  in 
its  various  phrases,  the  study  of  life,  watched  Doctor 
Philip  with  sleepy,  half-closed  eyes,  and  drew  his  own  de- 
ductions. 

"  The  cad's  in  love  with  his  cousin's  wife,  for  certain," 
mused  tlie  writer  of  fiction,  "  and  she's  aware  of  it.  But 
that's  no  reason  why  he  should  be  afraid  of  her  and  he  is 
afraid,  by  George,  almost  to  speak  in  her  presence.  Jle 
watches  her  as  a  terrier  watches  a  rat,  and  with  much  the 
same  amiable  expression  of  good  will  ;  or,  has  he  a  secret, 
etc.  ?  And  does  she  know  it  ?  Who'd  think  of  finding  a 
romance  in  real  life  in  a  dull  country  house,  in  a  dull  coun- 
try town,  and  on  the  prosaic  occasion  of  a  wedding  ?  And 
George,  like  a  model  husband,  is  blind  as  a  bat  and  sees 
nothing." 

Mr.  Tompkins,  interested  in  the  case  purely  from  pro- 
fessional causes,  watched  George  Barstone's  wife  and 
George  Barstone's  cousin,  and  became  more  convinced 
with  every  passing  hour  that  his  surmise  was  right.  Dr. 
Phil  was  afraid  of  that  pale,  fair-haired  girl,  who  never 
by  any  chance  spoke  to  him,  if  she  could  possibly  avoid  it. 
She  held  some  secret  of  his — unknown  to  the  rest  of  the 
household — and  he  dreaded  her  horribly,  and  was  falling 
away  to  a  shadow. 

The  sunny  spring  days  were  gliding  away  fast — horribly 
fast,  it  seemed  to  Magdalen — bringing  the  fatid  wedding 
day  near. 

Thursday,  the  fifteenth,  was  fixed  for  the  ceremonial, 
and  it  was  now  the  evening  of  Suiulay,  the  eleventh.  She 
sat  by  the  drawing-room  window,  alone,  looking  blankly 


270  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

out  at  the  silvery  twilight  and  at  the  figures  walking  about, 
near  the  waving  willows — George  and  Dick  smoking  tlieir 
cigars,  and  a  little  beyond,  Fanny,  in  wliite  niuslin,  a  sailor 
hat  on  her  head,  a  cluster  of  roses  on  her  breast,  clinging 
to  the  arm  of  her  lover  and  gazing  up  in  his  face  with  radi- 
ant eyes.     He  looked  worn  and    moody  and  unutterably 
bored  as  he  listened  and  answered  ;  and  ever  and  anon  his 
eves  would  turn  to  the  window,  where  the  solitary  watcher 
—the  Nemesis  of  his  life — sat.     What  was  she  thinking  of 
there  alone  ?  he  wondered  ;  plotting  his  ruin  as  likely  as 
not.     Monday,  Tuesday,  Wednesday,  Thursday— four  end- 
less days  of  suspense  and  mental  torture  ere  Fanny  could 
be  his  wife,  and  miles  of  sea  and  land  lie  between  him  and 
his  cousin's  wife.     Those  four  days  looked  an  eternity. 
He  felt  as  though  the  uncertainty  was  driving  him  mad. 
She  had  not  seen  her  brother,  he  was  convinced,  since  her 
illness,  and  he  augured  favorably   from   that.      But  the 
stranger  Johnstone   was  still  in   Millford— he  had   never 
rested  until  he  had  convinced  himself  of  that — still  stop- 
ping at  Freeman's  boarding-house  with  a  woman  whom  he 
called  his  sister.     He  had  even  met  them  face  to  face,  one 
cloudy  night,  in  a  deserted  street,  and  he  and  Willie  All- 
ward,  for  one  instant  of  time,   had  looked  straight   and 
steadily  into  each   other's  eyes  and  passed  on.     It  was  a 
mutual  glare  of  hatred,  defiance,  and  the  woman  upon  the 
lad's  arm  had  uttered  a  faint  cry  and  clung  closer  to  her 
protector.     A  thick  veil  hid  her  face,  but  a  vague  some- 
thing  in   that   cry,  in  her  shape  and  size,  haunted  him 
strangely  after  they  had  passed  by.     He  stood  in  the  dull, 
deserted  street  and  looked  after  them.     Who  was  the  wo- 
man y  and  what  was  young  Allward's  motive  in  keeping 
her  here  and  passing  her  off  as  his  sister  ?     lie  had  no 
sister,  Philip  knew  well,  but  George's  wife;  and  what  other 
motive  could  he  have  at  all  in  remaining  in  Millford,  save 
the  motive  of  exposure.     On  all  sides  danger  and  discovery 
menaced  him  ;  it  seemed  madness  even  to  iioi)e  for  escape. 
"  Would  to  God  I  had  never  seen  Laura  Allward's  baby 
face ! "    he   thought,    bitterlv.     "  Would   to  God  I    had 
walked  in  the  straight  way  !'    I  should  not  now,  in  the  su- 
preme crisis  of  my  life,  be"hedged  around  with  enemies." 

More  than  once,  unseen  himself,  he  had  haunted  the 
humble  boarding-house,  where  Willie  Allward  dwelt— 
sometimes,  in  the  bleak,  wintry  dusk,  rewarded  by  peeing 


DRAWING  NEAR.  ^n 

him  come  ont  with  the  veiled  and  shawled  woman — hie 
mysterious  companion — upon  his  arm,  he  watched  them 
while  they  took  their  evening  walk,  and  returned  to  tlie 
house,  never  venturing  near  enough  to  hear  what  they 
said.  An  indefinite  soinotliing  about  this  veiled  and 
shawled  woman  thrilled  him  strangely  witli  the  conviction 
that,  somewhere  and  at  some  past  time,  that  walk,  that 
figure,  h.'id  been  familiar. 

"  Who  can  she  be;  ?  "  he  wondered.  "Young  Allward 
has  no  wife,  no  sister,  no  female  relative  whatever,  except 
George's  wife.  The  only  motive  he  can  have  in  remaining 
here  is  my  exposure.  Can  that  woman  be  in  any  way  nec- 
essary to  his  plot  ?  and  for  what  does  he  wait  so  long  ?" 

He  was  thinking  such  thoughts  as  these  while  lie  walked 
by  Famiy's  side,  while  he  answered  at  random  her  frivol- 
ous talk  about  the  wedding  clotiies  and  bridesmaids.  His 
face  looked  pale  and  worn  in  the  starry  twilight — his  eyes 
moody,  and  with  a  far-away  look  in  their  dark  depths. 

"How  dull  you  are,  Phil  !"  his  ])ride-eleet  murmured, 
re])roaclifully  ;  "  I  don't  believe  you've  heard  one  word 
I've  been  saying.  A  person  might  think,  to  look  at  you, 
you  were  in  love  with  somebody  else,  and  quite  heart- 
broken at  the  thought  of  marrying  me  !  You  say  you  like 
me,  and  all  that,  but  I'm  sure  you  don't  go  on  much  as  if 
you  did  !     I  don't  believe  you  care  for  me  one  pin  !  " 

"  My  dear  Fanny,"  the  doctor  said,  impatiently,  awaking 
from  his  trance,  "  for  heaven's  sake,  let  us  have  done  with 
your  jealous  nonsense!  '  Goon,'  indeed  !  How  do  you 
want  me  to  go  on  ?  Must  I  kneel  perpetually  at  your  feet 
a  la  Romeo,  swearing  deathless  devotion,  with  George  and 
Tompkins  to  applaud  ?  For  mercy's  sake,  Fanny,  don't 
be  a  baby  always  !  I'm  as  fond  of  you  as  it's  in  my  nature 
to  be  of  any  one  ;  but  I  don't  take  the  same  absorbing 
amount  of  interest  in  white  moire  for  you  and  pink  grena- 
dine for  the  bridesmaids,  and  the  rest  of  it,  that  you  do. 
I  have  otlier  things  to  think  about,  now  that  I  am  on  the 
eve  of  leaving  this  country,  most  likely  forever  !" 

Fanny  looked  at  him,  almost  angry  with  her  idol  for 
once. 

"  Other  things  to  think  about.  Yes,  I  know  that.  I'm 
the  last  thing  you  think  much  about.  Suppose  we  go  in. 
Doctor  Barstone.  Yes,  Magdalen  is  still  sitting  by  the 
window,  and  ever  since  we  came  out  here,  when  you  were 


372  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

not  staring  with  all  your  might  at  nothing,  you've  been 
staring  at  her.  There's  something  between  you  two  !  Oh, 
yoa  needn't  deny  it !  I  mayn't  be  clever  and  that,  as  you 
and  she  are,  but  I  can  see  some  things  !  I  don't  know  what 
it  is.  You  may  be  in  love  with  her,  but  I  can  tell  you,  for 
your  comfort,  Doctor  Philip  Barstone,  she  hates  you  like 
poison  !     There  !" 

The  little  outburst  of  jealousy  passed  quite  unheeded — 
he  only  heard  the  last  words. 

''Ah!"  he  said,  "Mrs.  Barstone  talks  of  me  to  you, 
does  she  ?  What  does  she  say  ?  If  she  hates  me  so 
intensely,  I  only  wonder  she  doesn't  endeavor  to  prevent 
your  marrying  me." 

"  She  does  }  "  responded  Fanny,  promptly  "  she  has  ! 
She  says  you're  a  bad  man,  a  fortune-hunter,  and  that  I  will 
be  unhappy  as  your  wife.  Phil,  she  wouldn't  hate  you  so 
without  some  reason  ;  what  is  it  ?  She  hardly  speaks  to 
you,  you  know,  and  she  turned  her  back  upon  you  the 
last  time  you  wanted  to  shake  hands  with  her.  It's  enough 
to  make  any  one  suspicious  and  jealous,  I  think  ! " 

"  Then  you  iieed  be  neither.  The  reason  of  Mrs.  Bar- 
stone's  dislike  is  patent  enough,  I  should  say.  I  have  found 
her  out ! " 

'*  Found  her  out  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  What  has  she 
done  ?  " 

"  She  keeps  assignations  with  an  unknown  man — she 
receives  letters  from  him,  and  I  have  discovered  her  in  the 
act,  both  here  and  in  New  York,  Don't  you  recollect  the 
night  of  George's  absence,  her  visit  to  the  old  mill  in  the 
snow-storm  ?  Have  you  forgotten  what  you  saw  yourself, 
before  she  ever  married  George  ?  What  Mrs.  Barstone's 
secret  may  be,  I  don't  pretend  to  say  ;  but,  as  I  told  you,  I 
have  found  her  out,  and  she  hates  me  accordingly.  I  should 
not  be  at  all  surprised — it,  would  be  quite  like  your  sex— 
if  she  trumped  up  some  cock  and  bull  story  of  past  murders 
of  mine  to  frighten  you.  I  watch  her — yes,  I  don't  deny  it. 
Her  unconcealed  aversion  amuses  me  ;  but,  my  dear  little 
foolish  Fanny,  be  jealous  of  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  if  you 
choose,  only  leave  George's  wife  out  of  the  reckoning.  I 
would  go  to  her  funeral  to-morrow,"  concluded  the  doctor, 
truthfully,  "  with  the  greatest  pleasure  !  " 

And  then,  it  being  quite  dark  by  this  time  in  the  Wil- 
low Walk;  and  the  two  smokers  out  of  sight,  the  doctor 


DRAWI^^G  NEAR.  213 

kissed  his  betrothed,  and  whispered  a  few  words  iu  her  ear 

that  set  her  smiles,  dimples  and  good  humor  once  more  in 

full  play  ;  and  tlien,  as  the  dew  was  falliiii^,  he  led  her  in. 

"Thank  heaven  !  this  time  next  Sunday  we  shall  have 

eft  your  insufferably  stupid  Milllord  miles  behind  us,  and 

e  on  our  way  to  a  fairer  land,  where  spitofnl  youn<(  women 

m  come  between  us  no  more,  and  my  Fanny  will  be  all 

y  own.     Every  hour  will  seem  like  a  century  to  me  until 

liursday  has  come  and  gone." 

Which  was  perfectly  true,  though  not  quite  iu  the  flat- 
ering  sense  Miss  Winters  received  it.  Would  Thursday 
>onie  and  go  in  safety  for  him  and  make  Fanny  and  her 
ortune  all  his  own  ? 

Magdalen  sat  at  the  piano  when  the  lovers  entered  play- 
hig  solemn,  sweet  melodies  of  Mozart  for  George,  sitting; 
near  her.  Fanny  drew  Phil  into  a  window  recess,  whore 
zha  could  watch  the  moon  rise,  listen  to  the  plaintive  melo- 
;lies  and  Phil's  tender  protestations  at  once.  Like  all 
young  women  in  love,  her  appetite  for  sentimental  declar- 
ations was  insatiable,  and  the  more  it  waSfed,  the  more 
it  craved.  It  bored  him  horribly,  but  he  was  in  for  it,  and 
must  play  the  love-sick  farce  to  the  end.  which  meant. 
with  him,  the  day  after  the  wedding. 

Magdalen  couhl  see  them  from  where  she  sat,  and  Fanny'.j 
happy  face  smote  her  with  a  sense  of  keen  physical  pain. 

She  glanced  up  at  her  husband,  the  honest,  blue  eyes 
were  bent  upon  her,  full  of  that  trustful  love  she  had 
learned  to  know  so  well,  blindly  faithful  and  dog-like. 
And  np-stairs.  Aunt  Lydia  was  quietly  content  at  last,  that 
this  wedding  should  take  place.  And  she — she  was  about 
to  change  all  this  domestic  peace  to  misery  and  shame — 
about  to  break  that  poor  child's  heart — about  to  blazon  the 
3tory  of  Philip  Barstone's  crimes  far  and  wide  over  the 
country — about  to  let  the  world  know  the  bitter  story  of 
her  own  family  disgrace.  George's  love  would  turn  to 
hatred.  Her  home  could  be  no  longer  here.  It  was  the 
last  Sunda,v,  perhaps,  of  all  the  Sundays  of  her  life  in 
which  she  should  sit  thus,  by  his  side,  beloved.  In  one 
brief  week  she  would  have  left  all  this,  aiul  him,  forever  ; 
and  they  would  have  good  reason  to  hate  the  hour  that 
first  brought  her  across  the  threshold.  And  still  she 
played  on,  tlie  solemn,  plaintive  airs  George  liked,  never 
stirring  from  the  sonatas  until  the  evening  was  far  gone. 


ZU  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

Long  after  the  honseliold  were  asleep  that  night,  Mag- 
dalen lay  broad  awake.  Was  it  too  late  yet,  she  thought  ? 
Three  days  still  remained.  She  had  no  thought  of  spar- 
ing Philip  Barstone  ;  but  Fanny — George — Aunt  Lydia — 
the  public  disgrace,  at  least,  might  be  saved  them, 
Fanny's  wedding  must  not  take  place,  of  course,  and 
Fanny's  sorrow  and  disappointment  and  mortification 
would  be  very  bitter  ;  but  better  sorrow  for  a  few  weeks 
than  life-long  misery.  She  had  only  to  tell  George  the 
whole  story  to-morrow,  to  bring  forward  Willie  and  Caro- 
line, to  prove  her  words,  and  Philip  Barstone  would  leave 
Golden  VYillows  to  cross  its  threshold  no  more.  To  lose 
friends,  home  and  fortune,  surely  that  were  punishment 
enough.  Let  him  go  and  hide  his  guilt  and  despair  in 
some  distant  land,  renounce  all  claim  upon  Fanny,  and — 
her  vow  would  have  been  kept  sufficiently.  Some  story 
could  be  got  up  to  account  for  the  broken-off  marriage, 
and  neither  Miss  Barstone  nor  George  could  very  greatly 
blame  her  for  her  part  in  hunting  him  down.  They  would 
be  grateful,  instead,  that  she  had  saved  Fanny.  Why 
should  she  condemn  herself  to  life-loug  suffering  even  to 
punish  him  ?  And  she  wanted  justice,  not  revenge.  It 
was  very  well  for  Willie  to  talk  of  sacrificing  everything 
to  avenge  Laura  and  himself.  Was  she  to  lose  her  happy 
home,  her  beloved  husband,  to  bring  eternal  shame  and 
sorrow  upon  all  who  loved  her  most,  to  bring  about  his 
public  theatrical  denouement  ?  By  only  exposing  him  to 
his  family,  he  certainly  would  escape  the  punishment  he 
so  richly  deserved — that  of  the  law — but  better  one  bad 
man  should  escape  than  a  whole  innocent  family  be  made 
to  suffer.  Yes,  there  was  yet  time — time  to  save  herself 
and  those  she  loved  so  dearly  ;  and  they  should  be  saved. 
To-morrow  she  would  see  Willie,  beg  him,  on  her  knees, 
if  necessary,  to  come  with  her  to  George's  office  and  reveal 
all — to-morrow,  Philip  Barstone,  branded  and  an  outcast, 
should  leave  Golden  Willows  forever. 

The  new  day — the  to-morrow  that  was  to  save  her  and 
them  all — was  growing  gray  in  the  eastern  skj;,  as  she  lay 
there  and  thought.  She  dropped  asleep  at  last  with  the 
momentous  word  upon  her  lips  and  heart : 

**  To-morrow  J  to-morrow  ! " 


THE  WEDDIXO  WEEK.  275 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE     WEDDING     WEEK. 

•'I  WILL  see  Willie  to-duy  !  Before  night  Philip  Bar- 
stone  will  have  quitted  Golden  Willows,  to  return  no 
more  I  " 

Magdalen  descended  to  breakfast  with  the  thought  in 
her  mind.  She  looked  somewhat  haggard  with  the  past 
night's  vigil,  but  there  was  an  eager  light  in  her  eyes  that 
nuide  her  husband  turn  and  look  at  her  as  she  entered. 

The  others  were  there — Fanny,  in  voluminous  white 
wrapper  with  azure  girdle  and  fluttering  blue  ribbons  in 
her  hair,  very  fresh  and  bright  and  almost  pretty.  ^Mr. 
Tompkins,  Philip  and  George — and  the  histant  Magdalen 
liad  taken  her  place  at  the  head  of  the  table  Miss  Winters 
opened  the  day's  campaign  briskly. 

"  Magdalen,  I  want  you  to  come  with  me  to  Millford  to- 
day and  help  me  decide  among  some  lovely  shades  of  silk 
they  have  down  in  Bentley's.  Quiet  shades,  you  know — 
pearl-gray,  mouse  color,  ashes  of  roses,  and  steel.  I  shall 
have  a  traveling  suit  of  one  of  them  and  I  can't  make  up 
my  mind  which.  And  then  we  must  visit  the  green-house 
and  order  a  supply  of  natural  flowers  for — for" — with  a 
maidenly  droop  of  the  eyelids — "  Thursday  evening." 

Magdalen  assented,  of  course  ;  not  best  pleased,  how- 
ever. It  jarred  her  horribly,  this  lending  herself  to  and 
countenancing  the  preparations  for  a  wedding  that  would 
never  take  place.  But  just  at  present  it  was  not  to  be 
avoided. 

Philip,  looking  askance  at  the  pale,  grave  face  of  his 
cousin's  wife,  thought  it  boded  well  for  him,  this  calm 
quiescence.  Whatever  she  knew,  she  was  not  going  to  ex- 
pose him,  surely,  or  she  would  never  aid  and  abet  Fanny 
in  preparing  for  her  marriage  with  him.  If  she  meant  to 
speak  at  all,  she  would  surely  have  spoken  ere  matters 
went  thus  far. 

His  spirits  were  unusually  high  as  he  drove  them  into 
Millford.     He  strove  assiduously  to  make  himself  agree- 


276  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

able  to  Mrs.  Barstone,  in  no  pointed  or  officious  way,  bnt 
still  markedly. 

Magdalen's  brows  had  contracted  angrily  when  she 
found  who  was  to  be  their  escort  ;  but  she  had  accepted 
the  situation  in  silence. 

They  reached  Millford  as  the  town  clocks  were  chiming 
eleven,  and  drove  to  Bentley's  emporium.  And  here, 
amid  pearl-gray  and  mouse-color  silks,  Miss  Winters  man- 
aged to  pass  two  mortal  hours,  comparing  shades,  select- 
ing trimmings,  etc.  Then  they  visited  a  ladies'  saloon 
and  had  luncheon,  Miss  Winters  declaring  herself  fit  to 
drop  from  exhaustion  ;  then  to  the  green-house,  to  order 
flowers  wherewith  to  decorate  the  house  on  the  bridal 
night  ;  then  to  sundry  milliners  and  dressmakers,  all  at 
work  for  the  heiress,  and  then  it  was  five  o'clock,  and 
high  time  to  return  home. 

There  had  been  no  possibility  of  escape  for  Magdalen. 
Philip  had  never  quitted  them  ;  and,  unless  she  told  a  de- 
liberate falsehood,  invented  for  the  occasion,  she  could  not 
have  broken  away.  A  deliberate  falsehood  Magdalen  was 
incapable  of.  Fate  had  ruled  it,  and,  in  an  inward  fever 
of  intolerable  anxiety,  she  was  forced  to  return,  nothing 
accomplished  despite  all  her  resolves. 

Another  day  gone  !  But  two  now  until  the  fatal  wed- 
ding day.  What  if,  after  all,  it  were  written — if  it  were 
too  late — if  her  wicked  vow  of  vengeance  were  wreaking 
its  own  retribution,  and  if  she  must  perish  with  the  man 
she  had  sworn  to  destroy  ? 

She  came  down  looking  so  worn  and  white  on  Tuesday 
morning  that  all  George's  fears  for  her  health  were  re- 
newed. The  business  of  yesterday  had  been  too  much  for 
her — she  was  still  weak  from  recent  illness — Fanny  must 
find  some  one  else  to  decide  upon  her  grays  and  her  mouse 
colors — Magdalen  must  remain  quiet,  and  not  worry  her- 
self over  the  wedding  preparations  in  any  way,  or  they 
would  have  her  laid  upon  their  hands  again. 

After  which  exordium,  George  kissed  his  wife  and  de- 
parted, whistling  briskly.  He,  like  Aunt  Lydia,  had  be- 
come reconciled  to  the  marriage,  though  he  had  been 
hugely  indignant  at  first,  and  had  undertaken  to  remon- 
strate with  Phil. 

**  You  go  fast,  my  friend,"  he  said  ;  *'  your  game  is  a 
little  too  palpable  this  time.     Why  didn't  you  permit 


THE  WEDDING  WEEK.  277 

Fanny  to  enjoy  her  fortune  one  month,  at  least,  before 
proposing  to  take  it  from  her  ?  You  are  marrying  the 
sixty  thousand  dolhirs,  of  course,  and  you  care  as  much 
for  Fan  as  I  do  for  yonder  crow  sailing  over  the  tree  tops. 
The  poor  child's  fate  is  likely  to  be  a  happy  one  ! " 

"  My  dear  George,"  his  cousin  retorted,  with  the  drawl 
he  always  assumed  when  about  to  say  sometliiiig  unusually 
impertinent,  "you  are  two  or  throe  years  my  senior,  and 
you  are  a  married  man,  but  for  all  that,  tiie  character  of 
Mentor  is  not  the  role  a  beneficent  Providence  ever  in- 
tended you  to  play.  I  marry  Fanny  because  she  has  in- 
herited sixty  thousand  dollars,  if  you  like,  and  I'm  not 
what  sentimental  people  call  in  love,  I  dare  say — indeed, 
that  aMiiable  weakness  always  was  more  of  a"  failure  of 
yours  than  of  mine.  You  and  your  wife  married  for  love 
didn't  you  ?  Well,  of  course,  poor  Fanny  and  I  need  not 
look  forward  to  such  perfect  happiness  and  confidence  as 
you  and  i\[agdalen  enjoy — it  would  be  too  much  to  expect 
— but  in  a  hum-drum  and  unromantic  way — with  no 
mysterious  poor  relations  in  the  background— I  have  no 
doubt  we  will  jog  on  together  contentedly  enough." 

And  Philip  looked  his  legal  cousin  fulfin  the  eyes,  with 
a  smile  of  insolent  meaning. 

George  winced  under  his  well-aimed  blow,  as  Philip 
sauntered  off  humming  a  tune.  And  Mr.  Barstone,  the 
elder,  interfered  in  other  people's  concerns  no  more. 

Fanny  had  to  visit  Millford  again  that  morning.  It 
was  to  be  her  last  visit  before  becoming  invisible  until 
Thursday  night,  and  she  took  her  slave  and  adorer  with 
her.  The  house  was  very  still  ;  Aunt  Lydia  was  break- 
fasting in  her  room  ;  Mr.  Tom})kins  was  writing  in  his  ; 
her  way  to  Millford  and  Willie  was  an  easy  way  enough  to- 
day. As  ten  struck,  closely  veiled  and  wearing  a  water- 
proof mantle,  Magdalen  left  the  cottage  and  set  out  on 
foot  for  the  town. 

The  April  morning  was  gray  and  overcast,  with  a  fitful 
wind  and  a  lowering  sky.  Magdalen  hurried  along,  feel- 
ing no  fatigue,  and  reached  the  shabby  boarding-house 
before  noon.  She  was  shown  up-stairs,  and  found  Caro- 
line alone,  sitting  forlornly  by  the  window.  She  arose, 
turning  very  pale  at  sight  of  her  unexpected  visitor. 

''Don't  be  alarmed,  Mrs.  Reed,"  Magdalen  said;  "I 
only  came  to  see  my  brother.     Where  is  he  ?  " 


278  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

"  Ont  for  the  day.  He  said  last  night  he  was  growing 
as  nervous  as  an  hysterical  girl  from  being  cooped  up  here, 
and  before  daybreak  tliis  morning,  was  off  for  a  day's  ram- 
ble through  the  country.  Ho  will  not  be  back  until  after 
nightfall." 

Magdalen  sank  itito  a  chair.  Fate,  then,  was  against 
her  ;  another  day  must  go,  and  every  instant  was  uii 
speakably  precious  now. 

''I  must  see  him  !"  she  cried.     "  I  must  see  him  to 
night.     Tell  him  to  come  to  Golden  Willows — yes,  Mrs. 
Eeed,  he  must  come — tell  him  to  be  in  the  Willow  Walk, 
if  possible,  by  ten  to-night.     Tell  him,  from  me,  to   be 
there  without  fail  ! " 

"  1  will  tell  him.  Mrs.  Barstone,  has  anything  oc- 
curred ?  " 

"  Notliing  has  occurred.  The  wedding  is  fixed  for 
Thursday  night.  I  must  not  linger  now.  The  moment 
Willie  returns  send  him  direct  to  Golden  Willows,  whether 
the  night  be  stormy  or  no." 

She  liastened  away  for  her  weary  homeward  walk. 
Would  Fanny  and  Philip  be  liome  before  her  ?  she  won- 
dered. Yes,  as  she  opened  the  outer  gate  the  first  object 
she  beheld  was  the  doctor  smoking  his  cigar  under  the 
trees.  He  was  looking  at  lierfull,  at  the  close  veil,  at  the 
long  mantle,  at  her  dnsty  boots  and  dress,  and  knew,  as 
well  as  she  knew  lierself,  that  she  had  been  to  town — to 
Willie.  She  hastened  past  him,  not  pausing  to  glance  his 
way,  and  appeared  no  more  until  dinner. 

There  was  a  dinner  party  this  Tuesday  evening  at 
Golden  Willows — Fanny's  bridesmaids  were  all  there,  and 
two  or  three  of  George's  most  intimate  friends.  Magdalen, 
in  pale  green  tissue  and  fleecy  tulle  aiid  lace,  with  one 
real  white  rose  in  her  golden  hair  and  a  faint  flush,  born 
of  inward  fever,  on  either  cheek,  looked  beautiful.  For 
Fanny,  she  was  rustling  in  a  trailing  robe  of  dove-colored 
silk,  with  jeweled  violets  wreathing  her  hair,  curled, 
elaborately,  to  her  waist. 

The  cloudy  morning  had  ended  in  a  night  of  fine,  driz- 
zling rain  and  raw,  easterly  winds.  Miigdalen,  forced  to 
smile  and  talk  to  their  gues'ts,  sat,  with  a  lire  in  her  veins, 
her  temples  tlirobbing,  her  pulses  at  fever  heat.  Yonder 
sat  Fanny,  radiant  in  smiles  and  happiness  and  full  dress, 
beside  Philip  Barstone.     Great  heavens  !  what  a  farce,  a 


THE  WEDDINC  WEEK.  279 

mockery,  it  all  was  I  and  what  a  cheat,  an  impostor,  she 
felt  herself  to  be  ! 

They  were  all  young  people,  and  after  dinner,  in  the 
drawing-room,  there  was  a  carpet  dance.  Magdalen  de- 
clined dancing  on  account  of  her  recent  illness  ;  she  played 
a  waltz  and  a  cotillon  for  the  others :  then,  professing 
fatigue,  she  resigned  her  place  at  the  piano  to  Ella  Gold- 
ham,  and  waited  wliile  they  formed  a  quadrille — George, 
Philip,  Fanny  and  ail  who  were  likely  to  miss  lier,  were 
standing  up  to  dance.  It  was  already  a  quarter  past  ten  ; 
with  the  first  note  of  the  lanciers,  she  glided  from  the 
drawing-room,  threw  a  shawl  over  her  head,  opened  the 
hall  door  and  disappeared  in  the  wet  darkness. 

The  rainy  night  was  pitch  black,  the  brightly-lit  front 
windows  alone  casting  a  fitful  light  athwart  the  gloom. 
She  gathered  up  her  flowing  silken  drapery,  and,  heedless 
of  the  thin  shoes  she  wore,  made  her  way  over  wet  grass 
and  gravel  to  the  Willow  Walk. 

Deepest  darkness  was  there.  She  paused  at  the  en- 
trance and  softly  called  : 

"  Willie  ! " 

"  All  right  !  "  a  boyish  voice  answered.  "  Here  I  am." 
And  a  figure  stepped  from  under  the  trees — a  figure  she 
could  but  dimly  see.  "  I've  been  waiting  a  full  half-hour. 
What's  gone  wrong,  Magdalen  ?  " 

"  Nothing  has  gone  wrong.  Do  you  know  I  have  been 
very  ill  since  I — since  that  night,  Willie  ?" 

''Since  the  nigiit  you  tried  to  drown  yourself,"  Willie 
said,  sardonically,  "  Yes,  I  know  it — and  precious  fright- 
ened I  was,  I  can  tell  you.  What  fools  you  women  are  ! 
going  to  drown  yourself  because  you  thought  your  hus- 
band was  a  villain  and  falling  into  a  brain  fever  because 
you  discovered  he  wasn't.  If  notliing's  the  matter  now, 
what  did  you  frighten  Caroline  into  fits  for,  by  coming  to 
Freeman's  to-day  and  ordering  me  up  here  such  beastly 
weather  as  this  ?  " 

"  Because,  Willie,  you  must  speak  to-night — yes,  this 
very  hour  !  I  can  keep  the  secret  of  Pliilij)  Barstone's 
guilt  no  longer.  You  must  see  George  and  tell  him  all  to- 
night—all—all ! " 

She  laid  her  cold  hand  on  his  arm  ;  she  raised  her  pale, 
imploring  face  to  his  in  the  darkness.  Willie  shook  her 
roughly  off,  his  eyes  flashing  angrily. 


880  MAGBALEN^S  VOW. 

"  I  thought  so  ! "  he  said.  "  More  of  your  femmmb 
foolery  and  fickleness  Good  Lord  !  what  inconsistent  idiots 
you  are  !  One  hour  vowing  eternal  vengeance — the  next, 
whimpering  and  begging  mercy  for  your  victims  !  The 
man's  a  fool  who  trusts  the  best  of  yon  !  " 

"  I  don't  ask  mercy  for  him,  Willie  !  "  Magdalen  cried, 
in  a  voice  of  suppressed  intensity.  "Expose  him — drive 
him  from  tliis  house — I  ask  nothing  better.  It  is  mercy 
for  George,  for  Fanny,  for  myself,  I  ask.  Oh,  Willie  ! 
think  of  the  shame,  the  eternal  disgrace,  the  public  ex- 
posure, you  threaten  to  bring  !  Think  of  that  poor  girl's 
broken  heart  !  Think  how  our  history  will  be  dragged 
over  the  laud  !  Think  how  they  will  hate  and  despise  me, 
who  have  plotted  in  secret  to  bring  about  this  disgrace  !  I 
do  not  ask  you  to  spare  the  guilty,  but  the  innocent, 
the  public  exposure.  Tell  all  to-night,  and  let  him  be 
banished  from  this  house, with  loss  of  name,  home,  friends, 
fortune,  wife.     Surely  that  is  punishment  enough  !  " 

"  Not  half  punishment  enough  !  I  tell  you  no,  Magda- 
len— no  !  no  !  no  ! — not  if  you  went  down  on  your 
knees  and  begged  for  it !  Punishment,  indeed  I  Banish 
him  from  this  house,  and  how  much  worse  off  will  he  be 
than  before  ?  He  has  his  New  York  home,  and  his  pro- 
fession, and  by  and  by  you  will  hear  of  his  marriage  to 
some  other  fortune.  Will  that  avenge  Laura,  Caroline, 
myself  ?  Are  we  all  to  suffer  in  silence  because,  forsooth, 
his  relations  will  be  mortified  by  his  crimes  being  made 
known  ?  He  is  the  murderer  of  your  father  and  sister  ; 
through  him  my  life  is  ruined,  my  character  blasted,  and 
you  stand  there,  selfish  to  the  core,  afraid  to  lose  your  re- 
spectable husband  and  your  respectable  home,  and  plead 
for  the  villain  !  Spare  him  for  Fanny's  sake,  indeed  ! 
Wliat  is  Fanny,  or  a  million  Fannys,  to  me — to  you, 
either,  who  only  cloak  your  own  selfishness  by  her  name  ? 
Your  husband  will  despise  and  cast  you  off,  will  he  ?  Let 
him  !  Laura  was  worth  a  dozen  of  you,  and  this  precious 
husband's  cousin  cnst  her  off'  without  much  compunction. 
And  you  knelt  by  her  grave  and  vowed  vengeance,  did  you? 
I  wonder  her  unavenged  spirit  does  not  rise  from  that 
grave  to  pursue  you — spiritless,  abject  coward  that  you 
are  !  I  tell  you  no,  Magdalen  Barstone — no  !  and  again 
and  again  no  !  If  an  angel  came  down  from  yonder  sky 
with   the  same  prayer,  I  would  spurn  her — as  I  do  you  1 


THE  WEDDINO  WEEK.  281 

And  my  ctirse  upon  yon  if  after  this  you  take  the  matter 
in  your  own  hands  and  betray  me  !  " 

»he  staggered  back,  her  last  hope  gone,  appalled  by  the 
passions  she  had  aroused.  He  strode  past  her,  out  of  the 
walk. 

"  You  had  better  go  in  tlie  house  and  not  stand  tliere  in 
the  rain  to  get  your  death.  And  send  for  nie  on  710  more 
fool's  errands  !  On  Tliursday  night,  when  the  Avedding 
guests  are  assembled,  and  tliey  stand  before  the  minister, 
Caroline  and  I  will  be  there  to  denounce  him  !  And  if 
you  forestall  me,  it  had  been  better  for  you  you  never 
were  born  ! " 

He  strode  away — slie  heard  the  crash  of  his  footsteps  on 
the  wet  gravel — the  opening  and  shutting  of  the  gate — and 
then  she  knew  the  rain  was  falling  heavily  upon  her,  and 
that  her  feet  were  soaking  through.  Mechanically  she 
turned  and  walked  back  to  tlie  house. 

She  had  been  gone  some  twenty  minutes — the  quadrille 
was  almost  finished  when  she  re-entered  the  drawing-room. 
The  shawl  she  had  worn  had  saved  her  from  the  rain — she 
left  it  outside,  and  wont  in.  Her  thin-soled  slippers  were 
wet  through,  but  she  never  heeded  her  cold  feet — she  stood, 
shivering  slightly  in  the  warmth  and  light  of  the  room. 
To-morrow  was  Wednesday — the  next  Thursday — and  then 
— "after  that,  the  deluge!"  She  could  get  no  further 
— darkness  lay  all  beyond  ! 

Her  absence  and  return  had  not  been  unnoticed.  The 
eyes  of  love  are  keen,  but  George  went  conscientiously 
through  his  steps  and  saw  nothing — it  was  the  keener 
eyes  of  fear.  Philip  saw  her  glide  away,  and  all  through 
the  dance,  while  he  wore  that  inscrutable  face,  lie  was 
possessed  of  a  haunting  terror.  Had  she  gone  to  meet  her 
brother  ?  Were  they  plotting  his  final  ruin  even  at  that 
moment  ?  Every  interest  of  his  life  was  at  stake,  and  he 
must  move  through  this  abominable  dance,  and  sini})er 
and  bow  ;  and,  at  its  conclusion  those  two  might  enter 
and  brand  him,  before  all  present,  as  the  scoundrel  he 
knev/  himself  to  be. 

He  saw  her  re-enter,  alone.  The  instant  the  quadrille 
finished  George  was  by  her  side,  wiping  his  flushed  face. 
Dancing  was  not  a  business  in  which  the  ^Millford  bar- 
rister shone. 

"  Warm  work,  my  dear,"  he  said.     **  I'd  rather  walk  to 


282  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

town  and  back  than  dance  one  quadrille.  You  are  looking 
pale  to-night,  Magdalen — you  are  always  pale  of  late — but 
you  aro  quite  ill-looking,  now.  When  I  say  ill-looking, 
my  love,  of  course  you  know  what  I  mean." 

She  strove  to  smile  as  she  made  place  for  him  beside 
her, 

"  I  am  not  ill — a  little  chilly,  somehow — that  is  all.  They 
are  going  to  dance  again.  George,  I  think  I  will  go  up 
and  see  if  Aunt  Lydia  is  asleep — none  of  us  have  been  in 
her  room  this  evening." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear — only  don't  stay  too  long  even  if 
she  should  be  awake.  The  room  is  empty,"  Mr.  Barstone 
added,  gallantly,  "  when  the  prettiest  woman  present 
leaves  it ! " 

Magdalen  went  up  to  Miss  Barstone's  apartment,  found 
Miss  Barstone  still  awake,  listening  to  the  distant  sound 
of  the  music,  and  remained  with  her  nearly  an  hour. 
They  were  too  gay  to  miss  her  below  stairs,  and  that  very 
gayety  jarred  upon  her  horribly  to-night.  She  laid  her 
head  wearily  on  the  bedside,  with  a  long,  heart-sick  sigh, 
as  though  she  never  cared  to  lift  it  again. 

"There  is  something  on  your  mind,  my  dear,"  Aunt 
Lydia  said,  quietly.     "  I  wish  I  conld  help  you,  Magdalen," 

''No  one  can  help  me,"  the  girl  said,  with  a  quiet  de- 
spair sadder  than  tears  ;  "  my  trouble  is  past  help — past 
hope  !  Oh,  Aunt  Lydia,  if  we  could  only  make  our  own 
lives,  what  happy  creatures  we  should  be  !  But  our  lives 
are  what  others  make  them— we  are  but  puppets  in  the  hand 
of  inexorable  Fate,  and  all  our  struggles  are  but  fruitless  ! 
Some  day — ah,  very  soon  now — you  will  hate  me,  and 
wish  you  had  never  seen  my  face  ;  and  yet,  and  yet,  I 
don't  see  how  I  could  have  helped  being  what  I  am." 

"What  you  are!  My  dear  Magdalen,"  inexpressibly 
startled,  "what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you.  Dear  friend — best  friend — I  am 
far  beyond  any  help  of  yours.  My  own  hand — my  own 
wicked  and  unwomanly  act — first  raised  a  barrier  between 
myself  and  the  rest  of  the  world  ;  and  now  another  and 
stronger  hand  than  mine  renders  that  barrier  insurmount- 
able. Do  not  ask  me  any  questions  —the  time  when  you 
will  know  all — all " — with  a  choking  sob — "  is  very  near  ! 
Love  me,  if  you  can,  until  that  time  comes,  and  I  go  forth 
into  the  outer  darkness,  where  such  wretches  as  I  belong !" 


THE  WEDDING  WEEK.  283 

Aunt  Lydia  looked  at  her.  The  golden  head  lay  against 
the  bed — the  youthful  face  was  white  and  worn  and  hag- 
gard in  tlie  lainpliglit.  More  than  one  of  Phil's  hints 
came  vividly  back  to  her.  Was  George's  wife,  indeed,  go- 
ing mad  ? 

"  I  will  ask  yon  no  qnestions,  my  dear  ;  bnt,  if  you  have 
any  trouble  on  your  mind,  why  do  yon  not  go  to  George — 
to  your  husband  ?  He  loves  you  so  dearly,  my  child, 
that  I  think,  if  you  had  even  committed  a  crime,  he  would 
forgive  you,  and  love  you  all  the  more  for  having  something 
to  forgive.  You  are  very  dear  to  us  all,  Magdalen,  and  it 
pains  me  more  than  I  can  say  to  see  you  like  this.  My 
daughter,  go  to  your  husband — where  else  should  a  wife 
go  ? — tell  him  all,  whatever  your  trouble  may  be,  and  be- 
lieve me,  he  will  not  love  or  cherish  you  less." 

Magdalen  sighed. 

"  He  will  know  all  soon — soon — this  very  week.  But  he 
will  not  forgive  me — it  is  past  that  !  " 

And  then  silence  fell  and  the  moments  went  by.  Mag- 
dalen had  fallen  in  a  trance  from  which  Aunt  Lydia's 
gentle  voice  aroused  her. 

"  It's  half-])ast  eleven,  my  dear;  your  friends  will  be 
going  presently,  and  will  wonder  if  you  are  not  there  to 
bid  them  good-night.     Kiss  me,  and  go  down." 

Magdalen  bent  over  the  worn,  tranquil  face,  beautiful 
in  its  patient  suffering,  and  then  hurriedly  descended  the 
stairs.  The  bustle  of  cloakiiig  was  going  on — the  guests 
were  dispersing.  Again  Philip  Barstone  was  the  first 
person  she  encountered — again  had  he  been  on  the  watch — 
what  had  his  life  been  lately  but  one  ])rolongcd  and  anx- 
ious watch  ?  Was  this  night,  too,  to  pass  in  safety  for 
him  ?  Yes,  the  good-nights  were  said — P'anny  was  lean- 
ing out  into  the  rainy  darkness  to  watch  the  last  carriage 
away,  and  George's  wife  had  her  night  lamp  in  her  hand 
and  was  already  on  her  way  to  her  own  rooms,  and  noth- 
ing had  been  said.  liut  one  day  more  to  intervene  between 
him  and  his  wedding  day,  and  he  was  still  safe. 

"I  wish  I  had  insisted  upon  the  ceremony  taking  place 
early  on  Thursday  morning,  at  Millford,  in  church,"  he 
thought  as  he  sat  in  his  own  room,  "and  departed  im- 
mediately after.  Every  hour  spent  in  this  place  is  an 
liour  of  })rolonged  torture." 

But  the  bride  had  ruled  it  otherwise.    The  marriage 


384  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

was  to  take  place  on  Thursday  night  at  ten,  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  to  be  followed  by  an  old-fashioued  wedding 
party.  Fanny,  a  great  stickler  for  fashion  on  other  occa- 
sions, was  determined  on  this  to  be  a  heroine  as  long  as  pos- 
sible, and  display  her  lovely  wedding  dress  for  the  last 
time  in  Millford. 

Wednesday  dawned,  still  wet  and  gloomy,  filling  Miss 
Winters  with  apprehensions  for  the  morrow. 

"I  wouldn't,  for  countless  worlds,"  that  young  lady 
said,  at  breakfast,  ''be  married  upon  a  wet  day  !  One's 
life  is  sure  to  be  like  their  wedding  day  ;  so  you  can  see 
what  prospect  of  happiness  one  would  have,  married  on  a 
miserable,  sloppy,  soaking  day  like  this." 

''Then,  if  it  rains,"  observed  George,  "you'll  postpone 
the  nuptials.  W^ere  you  aware  of  the  interesting  fact  in 
natural  history,  of  which  Fanny  has  just  spoken,  before, 
Tompkins  ?  " 

Fanny  shook  her  head. 

"  Postpone  the  marriage  !  ISTo,  George — bad  as  a  wet 
day  may  be,  a  postponed  marriage  is  worse.  Yours  was 
postponed,  by  the  way — don't  you  remember  ?  " 

Aii  awkward  silence  fell.  Philip  looked  maliciously  at 
Magdalen  and  Tompkins  looked  steadfastly  at  his  plate,  and 
George  reddened. 

"If  the  weather  is  to  be  emblematic  of  our  wedded  hap- 
piness, my  dear  Fanny,"  Philip  said,  "you  may  take  my 
word  for  it,  the  day  will  be  without  precedent  in  the  way  of 
fineness.  George,  I  shall  walk  in  with  you  to  Millford 
this  morning.  The  house  will  be  in  such  a  state  of  bridal 
preparations,  for  to-day  and  to-morrow,  as  to  be  intoler- 
able." 

The  bridal  preparations  were,  indeed,  at  their  height. 
The  bride's  trousseau  had  arrived  from  New  York,  with 
the  exception  of  the  wedding  dress  and  veil,  expected  by 
this  evening's  train.  The  bridal  presents  were  many  and 
handsome,  and  Avere  to  be  displayed,  in  all  their  splendor, 
on  Thursday  night  ;  the  traveling  trunks  stood  up-stairs, 
ready  to  be  packed  ;  the  handsome  traveling  suit  was  in 
active  completion  in  Millford.  There  were  two  seam- 
stresses still  at  work  in  the  house — judging  by  the  amount 
of  needlework  Fanny  w-as  having  done,  her  whole  future 
life  was  to  be  one  prolonged  Sunday,  and  the  dry  goods 
stores  closed.     And  the  rooms  were  to  be  decorated,  and 


THE  WEDDIXC  WEEK.  286 

the  fitting  on  process  to  be  nndergonc  at  least  half  a  dozen 
times  before  night. 

A  restless  demon  seemed  to  possess  Philip  Barstone 
from  this  morning — a  walking  familiar,  that  gave  him  no 
respite,  lie  walked  into  Millfoixl  with  George,  dawdled 
away  an  hour  or  two  through  the  town,  visiting,  more 
than  once,  that  dull  little  back  street,'  where  Mrs.  Freeman 
kept  her  shabby  boarding-iiouse.  Then,  all  at  once,  a 
fever  of  impatience  to  see  what  Magdalen  was  about  seized 
him,  and  he  hurried  back  to  the  cottage  so  ra])idly  that 
the  perspiration  stood  in  beads  on  his  face.  She  was  do- 
ing nothing,  lie  found  her  sitting  by  one  of  tlie  windows, 
a  book  in  her  hand,  but  not  reading — looking  blankly  out 
at  the  gray,  dull  day. 

"  1  never  thouglit  she  could  be  so  selfish  and  so  un- 
kind !  "  Fanny  cried,  when  her  lover  joined  her  ;  "■  She 
won't  do  the  least  thing,  ller  taste  in  decorating  a  room 
is  not  to  be  surpassed,  but  to-day  she  will  not  even  otfer 
a  suggestion.  She  says  her  head  aches.  I  don't  believe 
it  ;  it's  downright  ugliness  and  nothing  else  !  " 

Miss  Winters  had  very  little  time  even  to  talk  to  Philip 
— a  summons  from  one  of  the  seamstresses  took  her  away, 
even  while  she  spoke.  Ho  quitted  the  house  again,  and 
joined  Mr.  Tompkins,  smoking  a  placid  pipe  under  the 
dripping  trees. 

"  Better  is  a  thorough  drenching  and  peace,  than  a  lux- 
urious apartment  and  general  topsy-turviness,"  the  author 
remarked.  "  I  couldn't  stand  so  much  sweeping,  dusting 
and  decorating,  so  I  have  sought  refuge  here.  Mrs. 
Barstone  is  the  only  sensible  female  in  tiie  house.  She 
takes  things  quietly  and  docs  nothing." 

"  Mrs.  Barstone  is  rather  a  remarkable  young  wo- 
man," said  the  doctor.  "  I  don't  pretend  to  understarid 
her  ! " 

"  She  appears  a  victim  to  green  and  yellow  melancholy, 
doesn't  she  ?"  said  Mr.  Tomjjkins,  with  a  side  glance  at 
his  companion.  "  Is  it  clironic  low  spirits,  or  liver  com- 
plaint, or  a  mysterious  secret  horror  ?  " 

"  Chronic  sulkiness,  I  should  say,"  answered  Doctor 
Phil  ;  "she  has  been  like  that  ever  since  I  met  iier  first. 
Defend  me  from  your  clever  women,  with  a  soul  above 
millinery  and  the  temper  of  the  deuce." 

A  summons  to  luncheon  recalled  the  two  gentlemen — a 


286  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

meal  at  which  Mrs.  George  did  not  appear.  Magdalen's 
headache  was  worse,  Fanny  said,  and  she  had  gone  to  lie 
down.  If  people  must  have  headaches,  Miss  Winters 
added,  with  a  sniff  that  told  she  had  no  belief  in  the 
ailment,  they  might  select  more  convenient  seasons  than 
bridal  eves.  But  it  was  interesting  to  be  an  invalid,  she 
supposed,  and  some  people  like  to  make  themselves  inter- 
esting. 

Philip's  walking  familiar  took  possession  of  him  again, 
the  repast  concluded,  but  he  seemed  to  liave  no  power  to 
go  beyond  sight  of  the  liouse.  He  smoked  furiously.  He 
wandered  about  the  grounds,  down  to  the  lake,  along  the 
Millford  road,  and  then  back  in  hot  haste  again.  Would 
the  day  never  end,  he  wondered  ;  never  had  hours  lagged 
as  those  lagged.  It  seemed  a  week,  at  least,  since  break- 
fast time,  that  morning.  Would  this  day  and  night  pass, 
too,  and  nothing  happen  ? 

Yes !  Evening  fell — still  dark,  starless,  overcast. 
George  returned,  dinner  was  announced  and  he  went  in. 
Would  George's  wife  appear  ?  he  wondered,  feverishly. 
Yes,  there  she  sat,  dressed  in  black  silk,  the  white 
shoulders  and  arms  gleaming  like  marble  against  its  luster- 
less  darkness  ;  a  cluster  of  white  roses  on  her  breast  and  a 
spray  of  geranium  leaves  in  her  bronzed  hair.  The  beauti- 
ful face  was  set  in  stony  calm  ;  a  fathomless  quiet  looked 
from  the  blue  eyes.  Beyond  a  certain  point  pain  is  its 
own  anesthetic  ;  she  had  reached  that  point  now  ;  a  sort 
of  dull  apathy  to  all  things  had  taken  possession  of  her. 
She  had  battled  fiercely,  suffered  intensely  ;  but  she  bat- 
tled and  suffered  no  more  ;  let  the  worse  come — she  was 
powerless. 

She  played  and  sang  for  nearly  two  hours,  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, after  dinner  ;  no  falter  in  her  voice,  no  tremble 
in  the  supple  fingers  that  flew  over  the  keys.  And  while 
she  played  and  sang,  with  her  husband  by  her  side,  she 
believed  it  to  be  the  last  night  she  would  ever  spend  under 
that  roof  ;  the  last  night  he  would  ever  look  upon  her  with 
those  loving,  trustful,  tender  eyes. 

Fanny  sat  in  a  low  rocker  near  Philip's  chair,  the  lamp- 
light falling  on  her  pretty  evening  dress,  her  loose  brown 
hair  and  happy  face.  For  once  she  was  silent — her  joy 
was  too  great,  too  complete  for  words  !  She  was  thinking 
of  her  wedding  dress  !     It   had   come   down   from  New 


THE  WEDDING  WEEK.  287 

York  in  charge  of  a  first-class  female  artist,  and  it  had 
been  tried  on,  and  no  words  are  strong  enough  to  describe 
its  beauties  or  the  bride-elect's  raptures.  It  fitted  beauti- 
fully. It  had  a  court  train  that  swept  for  yards  behind 
her  ;  it  was  of  white  velour  silk,  with  puffings  of  tulle, 
and  flounces  and  overdress  of  duchesse  lace.  There  was  a 
long  tulle  veil,  a  wreath  of  most  delicate  and  beautiful 
orange  blossoms,  forming  a  coronet  in  front,  aud  with 
trailing  buds,  blossoms  and  sprays  behind.  There  was  a 
fan  of  pearl  and  point  lace,  with  the  bride's  monogram 
beautifully  wrought.  It  was  all  lovely,  lovely,  lovely  ! 
And  the  traveling  suit  of  steel-gray,  frilled  and  paniered, 
with  its  coquettish  hat  and  veil,  its  gloves,  its  gaiters,  and 
everything  to  match,  was  perfect  also.  There  had  not 
been  a  single  misfit,  from  first  to  last.  And  there  were 
dinner  dresses,  ball  dresses,  morning  dresses,  street  dresses 
and  carriage  costumes,  and  each  suit  more  exquisite 
and   more  expensive  than  the  other. 

"  And,"  mused  the  blissful  bride,  "  no  one  in  Millford 
ever  had  such  a  trousseau  or  so  many  beautiful  and  costly 
presents  before.  How  they  will  gaze  and  wonder  to- 
morrow evening  !  Oh,  I  do  hope — I  do  hope  it  may 
only  be  fine  !  " 

She  sat  with  downcast  eyes,  flushed  cheeks  aud  lips  half 
parted  in  a  tender,  dreamy  smile — the  very  ideal  of  a 
happy  bride — with  no  thought  save  of  the  man  she  was 
about  to  wed.  Fanny  was  very  fond  of  Phil,  but  just 
at  present  he  was  a  very  secondary  consideration,  in  her 
mind,  to  her  new  clothes.  And  in  this  I  don't  think  Miss 
Winters  was  by  any  means  an  exception  to  much  more 
sensible  women. 

"  That's  so  pretty,  Magdalen,"  Fanny  said,  with  a  flut- 
tering sigh,  as  Magdalen  finished  some  plaintive  little 
song.  "  Doesn't  this  remind  you  of  the  night  before  you 
were  married,  when  George,  you,  me  and  Aunt  Lydia  sat 
silent  and  sort  of  dismal,  like  this  ?  Do  you  remember 
the  song  you  sang  tliat  night,  '  Forever  and  Forever '  ? 
I  like  that  song  ;  it  always  makes  me  feel  so  delightfully 
melancholy,  and  brings  thoughts  of  graves  and  dead  people 
and  that !     Sing  it,  please  !  " 

"  A  suitable  song  on  the  occasion  of  a  wedding,  I  should 
say  !  "  Philip  said,  with  a  laugli.  "  Does  not  the  thought 
of  to-morrow  make  you  melancholy  enough,  Fanny,  with.- 


288  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

out  any  external  aid  ?    Let  us  have  your  melancholy  song 
by  all  means,  Mrs.  Barstone  ! " 

Magdalen  sang  it,  as  she  had  sung  the  rest,  without 
hesitation  or  falter.  As  he  listened,  there  rose  up  before 
Philip  Barstone,  with  horrible  vividness,  two  graves,  green 
now  with  the  spring  grass  and  the  "  blossoming  clover," 
the  graves  of  Laura  Allward  and  Caroline  Reed  : 

I  note  the  flow  of  the  weary  years, 

Like  the  flow  of  this  flowing  river ; 
But  dead  in  my  heart  are  its  hopes  and  fears, 

Forever  and  forever ! 
For  never  a  light  in  the  distance  gleams — 

No  eye  looks  out  for  the  rover. 
Oh,  sweet  be  your  sleep,  love — sweet  be  your  dreams — 

Under  the  blossoming  clover, 

The  sweet-scented,  bee-haunted  clover ! 

There  was  always  a  wearied  pathos  in  this  song,  as  Mag- 
dalen sang  it.  Her  thoughts,  too,  were  with  Laura  in  her 
nameless  grave.  Philip  Barstone  rose  up  abruptly  and 
walked  out  of  the  room  as  she  left  the  piano.  He  did  not 
care  to  meet  the  gaze  of  those  bhie  eyes  just  then.  He 
went  out  into  the  hall  and  stood  looking  absently  through 
the  side  lights  at  the  night  and  whistling  softly.  He  stood 
there  so  long  that  Fanny  joined  him  presently. 

^'  What  are  you  doing  here  ? "  the  bride-elect  de- 
manded, "  Looking  at  the  weather  ?  And  what's  the 
weather  like  ?  " 

Phil  put  his  arm  around  her  waist  and  drew  her  to  him. 

''  The  weather  will  be  all  that  can  be  desired,  Fanny. 
Look  yonder — the  clouds  are  breaking  and  the  stars  are 
coming  out.  Let  us  take  it  as  a  good  omen.  What  ! 
Mrs.  Barstone  retiring  so  soon,  and  it  not  yet  eleven 
o'clock  !  " 

Magdalen,  lamp  in  hand,  had  appeared  on  the  thres- 
hold and  saw  that  tableau.  He  rarely  addressed  her,  but 
he  did  so  boldly  now,  holding  Fanny  still.  If  she  had 
any  sinister  designs  against  him,  what  more  likely  to  move 
her,  he  thought,  than  seeing  Fanny — so. 

"  Eleven  o'clock  is  my  usual  hour.  My  departure  need 
hasten  no  one  else.     Good  night,  Fanny  !  " 

She  spoke  with  marked  coldness ;  she  did  not  bid  him 
good-night.     She  had  looked  him  full  in  the  face  for  one 


THE  WEDDING  WEEK.  289 

instant,  with  a  glance  of  merciless  contempt,  then  passed 
on  and  disappeared. 

"  How  implacable  she  is — how  she  does  hate  you,  to  be 
sure  ! "  Fanny  said.  "  Shall  I  ever  know  what  is  between 
you  two  ?  " 

He  made  no  reply.  He  dropped  his  arm  suddenly  from 
about  her  and  turned  away. 

"As  you  will  be  very  busy  all  day  to-morrow,  and  in- 
tend to  dance  all  night,  1  should  strongly  advise  yon  to 
follow  Madam  Magdalen's  example.  I  am  going  to  smoke. 
Good  niglit.  Fan,  for  the  last  time." 

Fanny  looked  after  him  a  minute,  rather  inclined  to  re- 
sent this  cavalier  and  unlover-like  dismissal.  Her  habitual 
good  nature,  however,  got  the  better  of  the  momentary 
irritation.  She  took  her  night  light  off  the  tray,  peeped 
in  to  say  good  night  to  the  other  two  and  went  up-stairs. 
She  turned  the  handle  of  Magdalen's  door  and  found  it 
locked. 

"  It's  me,  Magdalen — I  mean  it's  I  !  Let  me  in,  please  ; 
George  won't  be  up  for  ever  so  long.  The  three  of  them 
are  going  to  have  a  sociable  smoke,  and  you  know  what 
that  means  !  I  don't  feel  a  bit  sleepy,  and  I  want  to  come 
in  and  talk  to  you." 

But  the  door  did  not  open.  Magdalen's  voice  spoke  in- 
side, sounding  hoarse  and  strange,  the  girl  thought, 

"  Not  to-night,  Fanny.  I — I  don't  feel  inclined  to  talk 
to-night.     Go  to  bed,  dear,  and  go  to  sleep." 

Fanny's  eyes  flashed.  How  unkind  everybody  was,  and 
she  going  away  on  Friday  morning,  never,  perhaps,  to  re- 
turn. Magdalen  was  a  selfish,  cold-hearted  creature  who 
made  everybody  wretched  about  her — George.  Phil  and 
now  herself.  In  spite  of  the  heavenly  bridal  robe  and 
trousseau.  Miss  Winters  went  to  bed  in  a  very  bad  temper 
on  her  bridal  eve. 

The  gentlemen  did  linger  long,  as  Fanny  had  prophe- 
sied, over  their  pipes.  It  was  past  one  when  Philip  Bar- 
stone  entered  his  room— for  his  last  night  there.  In  any 
case  his  last,  whether  things  went  ill  or  well  ;  whether 
Friday  morning  saw  him  in  safety,  with  his  rich  bride 
beside  him,  on  the  first  stage  of  the  trip  to  Paris,  or 
whether — he  faced  the  alternative  unflinchingly — he  was 
blown  up  and  ejected,  toward  night,  as  a  felon  and  a 
scoundrel,  from  the  house  that  had  been  his  boyhood's 


290  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

home.  It  was  useless  to  think  of  going  to  bed  ;  he  could 
not  sleep,  and  he  dreaded  the  thouglits  that  came  with 
darkness  and  the  pillow.  He  lowered  his  light,  opened 
the  window  wide,  lit  a  cigar  and  sat  down  to  keep  vigil 
until  morning. 

The  storm  had  cleared  entirely  away,  the  stars  shone 
gloriously  above,  the  early  rising  moon  already  was  setting. 
Was  he,  indeed,  to  take  it  as  a  good  omen  ?  The  dawn  gre« 
gray,  then  I'osy,  in  the  east,  and  while  he  sat  there,  pale, 
haggard,  sleepless,  the  sun  arose  brilliantly  on  Philip  Bar- 
stone's  second  wedding  day. 


CHAPTER  XXXIIL 

THE   WEDDING   NIGHT. 

Doctor  Barstone  did  not  appear  at  breakfast  on  that 
eventful  Thursday  morning.  Neither  did  Mrs.  George. 
It  was  very  possible  her  night  had  been  as  sleepless  as  the 
bridegroom's,  and  both  were  sleeping  the  sleep  of  exhaus- 
tion now.  Neither  did  Miss  Winters.  It  was  proper  for 
the  bride  to  keep  her  room,  and  the  bride  did  it.  George 
and  Richard  breakfasted  by  themselves,  and  Mr.  Tompkins 
enlivened  the  meal  by  his  agreeable  flow  of  spirits._ 

*'  I  presume  you  cut  the  shop  upon  this  auspicious  oc- 
casion, Mr.  Barstone,"  remarked  Dick,  gravely,  "  as  the 
head  of  the  family " 

"  As  the  head  of  the  family  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of 
attending  to  my  business,"  responded  the  Millford  bar- 
rister, decidedly.  "  I  have  a  very  interesting  case  in 
court  to-day — a  breach  of  promise — '  Peter  vs.  Piper '-^ali 
the  lady's  letters  to  the  gentleman  read  aloud  yesterday — 
all  the  gentleman's  letters  to  the  lady  to  be  read  to-day. 
Such  letters  !  I'm  for  the  plaintiff — Miss  Arethusa  Piper 
— a  gentle  maiden  of  five-and-forty  summers.  I  wouldn't 
miss  it  if  I  were  going  to  be  married  myself,  and  I  won't 
get  back  before  seven  o'clock.  Perhaps  you  had  better 
look  in  in  the  course  of  a  day.  They  won't  want  you  here, 
and  you  may  get  a  wrinkle  for  your  next  novel.  Good 
morning." 


THE  WEDDING  NIGHT.  291 

George  dashed  off  at  a  swinging  pace — he  always  walked 
into  Millford  when  the  weather  permitted,  and  the  weather 
to-day  was  (glorious.  The  sun  shone  with  tiio  wanntli  of 
June  ;  the  birds  chanted  their  morning  gloria  ail  ahjng 
the  leafy  woods  ;  tiie  si<y  was  as  blue  as  tlie  sky  of  Naples. 
George  glanced  up  at  it  as  he  lit  his  pipe. 

"Nice  weather  for  the  wedding-day."  he  thought. 
"'Blessed  is  the  bride  that  the  sun  shines  on,'  etc.  I 
wonder  what  ails  Magdalen  ?  She  is  far  from  well — fail- 
ing into  chronic  low  spirits  and  headache.  I  must  take 
her  away  for  a  trip  somewhere.  If  I  were  an  imaginative 
man,  I  might  fancy  it  was  Phil's  approaching  marriage 
that  weigiied  on  her  mind.  It's  not,  of  course.  It's  tiiat 
confounded  scoundrel,  Langley,  hang  him  !  " 

The  invisible  ones  made  their  appearance  in  the  course 
of  the  day — Fanny,  wlio,  under  any  circumstances,  could 
not  confine  herself  to  one  spot  long,  arriving  down-staira 
first,  then  Pliilip,  then  Magdalen. 

It  was  past  noon  before  Magdalen  came.  Philip  and 
Richard  had  sauntered  out,  and  Fanny  and  the  two  house- 
maids were  busy  as  bees  putting  tlie  last  ^ouches  to  the 
decorations  of  the  rooms. 

As  usual,  Miss  Winters  had  quite  forgotten  last  night'; 
little  temper,  and  was  radiant  with  good  health  and  goo. 
spirits. 

Magdalen  was  impressed  into  the  service  at  once,  filling 
vases  with  flowers,  arranging  furniture,  draping  curtains 
— no  one's  taste  was  like  hers.  The  bridesmaids  would 
arrive  at  nightfall  ;  tiie  remainder  of  the  wedding  guests 
later. 

Fanny's  hair  was  up  in  a  forest  of  pins  :  the  barber  was 
expected  late  in  the  afternoon  to  dress  it.  Just  at  present, 
in  the  pins  and  a  gingham  wrapper,  with  flushed  cheeks 
and  sparkling  eyes,  the  bride  was  workiiig  energetically, 
wreathing  evergreens  and  tying  up  bouquets. 

From  the  moment  she  left  her  room  Magdalen  found 
no  time  to  think — no  time  to  pause.  Events  hurried  on 
with  breathless  rapidity.  The  hours  seemed  to  fly.  She 
let  herself  drift  with  the  current,  and  made  no  effort  to 
stem  it.  She  arranged  the  flowers,  saw  to  the  decorations 
of  the  drawing-room,  to  the  arrangement  of  the  dining- 
room,  the  placing  of  the  silver  and  crvstal,  and  the  tall 
bouquets  for  a  feast  that  she  knew  would  never  be  eaten. 


392  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

She  inspected  the  arrangement  of  the  dressing-rooms— sne 
did  everything  it  was  her  duty  as  mistress  of  the  house  to 
do — and  all  in  a  dead,  mechanical  sort  of  way,  without 
smiling,  without  speaking. 

The  servants  in  the  house  looked  at  her  stony  face,  and 
whispered.  They  remembered  that  fixed  rigidity  of  coun- 
tenance long  after. 

If  the  power  to  feel  thankful  for  anything  had  been  left 
her,  she  would  have  felt  thankful  that  George  and  Philip 
were  away.  It  was  her  last  day  at  Golden  Willows— her 
last  day  as  George's  wife.  She  never  for  one  second  for- 
got that,  during  the  fast  flying  hours  of  that  strange  day. 
*'  The  last  !  the  last  ! "  She  thought  of  it  as  she  ar- 
ranged Fanny's  bridal  presents  in  a  little  room  opening 
off  the  drawing-room — as  she  knelt  beside  her,  later,  assist- 
ing her  to  pack  the  vast  traveling  trunk.  "  The  last  ! " 
and  she  was  going  through  this  dreary  farce  busy  with  the 
last  preparations  for  a  wedding  and  a  journey  that  would 
never  be.  Fanny's  smiling,  rosy  face  beamed  radiantly 
upon  her  now,  and  she  knew  that,  in  a  few  hours,  the 
smiles  and  radiance  would  be  struck  out  of  it,  perhaps 
forever.  ■ 

The  sunny  April  afternoon  drew  to  a  close  ;  the  silvery 
twilight  fell.  All  was  ended.  The  bustle  of  preparation, 
everything  was  in  order,  and  the  bride  was  in  her  room 
dressing.  The  forest  of  pins  had  disappeared— the  red- 
brown  tresses  were  built  in  a  superb  chignon,  with  little 
ringlets  down  to  her  eye-brows,  and  long  ringlets  trailing 
over  her  shoulders.  The  two  seamstresses  and  the  smartest 
of  the  housemaids  were  arranging  the  bridal  toilet,  with 
Mrs.  Barstone  by,  to  superintend— Mrs.  Barstone,  with 
that  face  of  stone— that  unsmiling  mouth— those  burning, 
bright-blue  eyes. 

The  first  carriage  came— Miss  Winters  three  brides- 
maids had  arrived.  Five  minutes  later  they  had  fluttered 
up  to  the  bridal  bower— all  exclamations  and  pink  tissue 
— a  second  loud  ring  at  the  bell  came. 

"  Look  out,  Rosie,"  Fanny  said,  nervously,  "  and  see 
who  it  is.  I  don't  see  what  on  earth  keeps  those  tiresome 
creatures  . 

*'  Those  tiresome  creatures  " — otherwise  her  bridegroom 
and  his  cousin  and  groomsman — were  there.  Some  haunt- 
ing terror  had  kept  Philip  away  from  the  house  the  whole 


THE  WEDDING  NIGHT.  293 

day.  He  had  left  Dick  in  court,  and  paid  a  visit  to  Mrs, 
Freeman's  boarding-house — to  the  street,  rather.  But  its 
dingy  front  told  liim  notliiiig.  Willie  Allward  was  no- 
where to  be  seen.  He  returned  to  the  court  house,  sut 
out  the  trial  of  Mr.  Peter  for  trifling  with  the  affections 
of  Miss  Piper,  and  never  heard  two  words  from  beginning 
to  end.  The  hour  had  come — would  it  pass  ? — and  would 
his  sentence  be  life  or  death  ? 

The  three  men  returned  to  the  house  together  as  the 
moon  rose  over  the  tree  tops  and  flooded  earth  and  sky 
with  its  yellow  light.  He  noted  all  things  with  preter- 
natural distinctness — the  countless  stars,  the  blue  night 
sky,  the  full  white  moon,  the  brightly  lit  fagade  of  the 
house,  the  heavy  perfume  of  flowers  as  he  entered,  the 
hush  that  seemed  to  reign. 

A  light  supper  awaited  the  gentlemen — he  could  taste 
nothing.  He  drank  half  a  tumbler  of  brandy  and  went 
up  to  his  room  to  dress.  In  the  up))er  hall  he  came  face 
to  face  with  George's  wife,  and  obeying  some  uncontrol- 
lable impulse,  he  stopped  and  looked  full  in  her  eyes. 

She  was  dressed  for  the  evening  in  a  mist-like  robe  of 
white  tulle  over  pearly  silk,  and  puflling  and  flouncing, 
the  neck  and  arms  gleaming  white  and  fair  and  cool  as 
marble  against  the  fleecy  softness  of  the  drapery.  He  saw 
blush  roses  nestling  in  the  foamy  lace  at  her  breast  ;  the 
strings  of  pearls  clasping  back  the  amber  hair  ;  the  marble 
whiteness  of  the  face  ;  the  eyes  that  looked  at  him  with 
the  cold  glitter  of  sapphire  stones.  She  had  never  looked 
more  beautiful  than  to-night,  and  she  was  dressed  for  his 
wedding — for  his  !  Would  slie  do  that  if  that  wedding 
were  never  to  take  place  ?  Would  she  stand  and  look  at 
him  like  this  if  she  meant  to  denounce  him  to-night  ? 

They  both  stood  still,  those  mutual  enemies,  on  the 
verge  of  a  duel  to  the  death,  and  looked  each  other  straight 
in  the  eyes.  It  was  but  for  three  seconds — Three  hours  it 
seemed  to  Philip  Barstone.  He  tried  to  smile — he  strove 
to  make  some  light  a})ropos  remark.  The  smile  froze  on 
his  lips — the  words  died  there  unsaid.  A  second  more 
and  she  had  floated  past  him,  in  her  noiseless  drapery,  and 
he  stood  on  tlie  landing  alone. 

The  guests  were  beginning  to  arrive,  early  though  it  was. 
Mrs.  Barstone  descended  to  receive  them.  She  scarcely 
felt  pain,  or  dread  or  suspense.     A  horrible  numbness  had 


294  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

seized  her — a  dull  apathy.  She  was  powerless  for  good  or 
evil.  Her  role  iu  this  farce  which  had  all  the  elements  of 
a  tragedy,  must  be  played  out  quietly  to  the  end. 

It  was  past  nine  ;  at  ten  the  wedding  was  to  take  place. 
George  made  his  expeditious  toilet  in  half  an  hour,  and 
joined  his  wife.  The  drawing-room  was  filling  fast.  The 
Kev.  Mr.  Harding  had  arrived,  with  his  wife  and  daughters. 
George  saw  Magdalen  standing  talking  to  him,  looking 
very  beautiful,  but  with  a  deadly  pallor  overspreading  that 
beauty — a  strange,  far-away  look  in  her  eyes.  More  than 
one  had  noticed  that  singular  look,  and  commented  upon 
it  already. 

**  How  white  and  rigid  Mrs.  Barstone  seemed  !  How 
stern  and  unsmiling  !  What  a  strange  look  she  had  in  her 
eyes  !     What  was  the  matter  ?  " 

People  remembered  Miss  Ella  Goldham's  party,  and  Mrs. 
Barstone's  singular  fainting  fit  upon  that  occasion.  Was 
there  something  wrong  ?  A  chill  fell  upon  the  guests. 
They  waited  breathlessly  for  something  unusual  to  happen, 
gathering  in  groups  and  talking  in  mysterious  undertones. 

George's  frank  face  and  genial  manner  thawed  the  frost 
a  little,  but  could  not  quite  dispel  it.  People  glanced  by 
stealth  at  their  watches,  and  wished  ten  o'clock  would 
come.  The  last  guest  had  arrived,  and  Mrs.  Barstone, 
with  a  terrible  disregard  of  the  proprieties,  had  deserted 
her  guests  and  taken  her  })lace  near  one  of  the  windows, 
gazing  steadfastly  out  with  that  face  of  stone. 

Five  minutes  to  ten — ten  !  The  Rev.  Mr.  Harding 
book  in  hand,  had  taken  his  place  ;  there  was  a  breathless 
hush  and  flutter.  Fvery  one  looked  at  Mrs.  George. 
Mrs.  George  never  stirred  ;  she  seemed  frozen  to  her  seat. 
Her  husband  approached  and  bent  over  her  anxiously. 

"  My  dear  Magdalen,"  he  whispered,  "  do  rise  up 
They  are  coming  in  ! " 

She  never  stirred  ;  she  never  spoke  ;  her  fixed  eyes 
never  left  the  moonlit  prospect  without.  They  were 
coming,  and  Willie  was-  not  hei-e  !  They  were  entering 
the  room,  and  Willie  was  nowhere  to  be  seen  !  Had  the 
lives  of  all  in  the  house  depended  on  it,  she  could  not  have 
spoken — could  not  have  uttered  one  word  to  prevent  this 
marriage.  She  felt  as  though  all  human  power,  but  the 
power  of  gazing  blankly  out  of  this  window,  had  left 
her. 


THE  WEDDING  NIGHT.  295 

A  soft  flutter  of  women's  skirts,  a  soft  w«ift  of  perfume, 
a  low  murmur  from  the  guests,  and  the  wedding  party 
were  in  tlie  room — Fanny  leaning  on  Pliili})'s  arm,  flushed 
with  deep  excitement  and  expectation,  he  pale  as  death 
itself.  He  glanced  OTice  at  that  motionless  figure  by  the 
window.  Oh,  God  !  would  the  next  five  minutes  pass  and 
nothing  happen  ? 

No  I  At  that  very  instant  the  garden  gate  opened 
swiftly,  and  a  man  and  a  woman  hurried,  almost  at  a  run, 
up  tiie  walk  to  the  house.  The  woman  was  unveiled  ;  no 
need  of  disguise  now.  A  scream  almost  broke  from  Mag- 
dalen's lips  ;  hor  luinds  locked  convulsively  in  her  lap. 
As  the  bride  and  bridegroom  took  their  places,  as  the  min- 
ister opened  his  book,  a  loud  knock  that  shook  the  door 
startled  them  all. 

The  avenger  was  here  ! 

Philip  Barstone  turned  and  looked  at  Magdalen.  She 
had  arisen  from  her  seat,  with  so  horror-struck,  so  ghastly 
a  face,  that  all  eyes  turned  upon  her.  In  that  instant  he 
knew  that  his  doom  was  sealed.  He  set  his  teeth  like  a 
bulldog  and  braced  himself  to  meet  what  was  to  come. 

Every  one  was  standing  up.  They  were  not  to  be  dis- 
appointed— something  was  going  to  happen  I 

Mr.  Harding  closed  his  book.  A  servant  opened  the 
house-door,  and  a  man  and  woman  came  in. 

"Am  I  too  late?"  the  man  demanded,  in  a  hoarse, 
breathless  way.     "  Is  the  wedding  over  ?  " 

The  servant  stared  and  fell  back.  Without  waiting  for 
an  answer,  the  man  pushed  liis  way  into  the  drawing- 
room.  The  woman,  pale  and  treml)ling  in  every  limb, 
sank  on  the  nearest  chair.  And  I'liilip  Barstone  saw 
what  he  expected  to  see — the  face  of  Willie  Allward  ? 

*'  Am  I  too  late  ?  ''  Willie  Allward  repeated,  loudly  and 
sternly.     "  Has  this  marriage  taken  place  ?  " 

He  strode  in  and  addressed  the  clergyman.  Bride  and 
bridesmaids  shrank  away,  but  forgot  to  scream,  so  intense 
was  the  scene.     The  clergyman  mechanically  answered  : 

"  The  marriage  has  not  taken  place.     Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  A  man  whom  Philip  Barstone  has  wronged'  beyond 
reparation  I  A  man  who  comes  to  avenge  the  living  and 
the  dead  !     A  man  who  comes  to  forbid  this  ntarriage  ! "' 

"A  madman,  who  ought  to  be  in  a  strait- jacket  I'* 
Philip  Barstone  broke  in,  with  a  sneev.     *'  The  moon  is  sA 


296  MAGDALEN'S  VOW 

the  full,  I  believe !    I  never  saw  this  lunatic  before  in  my 

life!''  ,        , 

The  gray  hue  of  death  lay  on  his  face,  but  the  savage 
blood  within  him  was  rising  to  meet  and  brave  the  danger 
he  could  not  escape. 

**  You  lie,  Philip  Barstone,  and  you  know  it  ! "  his  ac- 
cuser cried,  danntlessly.  "  I  charge  you  with  murder  and 
bigamy— or  attempted  bigamy  !  Philip  Barstone  is  a 
married  man  ! " 

There  was  a  gasping  cry  from  Fanny.  George  strode 
forward  and  confronted  the  intruder. 

''  How  dare  you  force  your  way  here,  sir,  and  raise  this 
scandalous  scene  ?  What  you  say  is  false.  Philip  _  Bar- 
stone is  a  single  man — a  widower,  if  you  like,  but  a  single 
man." 

"What  I  say  is  true  !"  Willie  answered,  unflmchmgly. 
''  He  is  no  widower,  and  no  single  man.  I  can  prove  my 
words.     Mrs.  Philip  Barstone,  come  here  ! " 

All  eyes  turned  to  the  door  ;  a  death-like  silence  fell. 
And  slowly,  as  if  evoked  from  the  grave,  a  Avoman  appeared 
upon  the  threshold— a  pale,  slender  woman,  dressed  in 
black,  with  loose,  dark  hair,  and  large,  wild,  black  eyes. 
Slowly  she  appeared,  and  stood  tliere  stock  still,  those 
great,  dark  eyes  turning  full  upon  Philip  Barstone. 

A  cry  broke  the  stillness— a  man's  cry— a  dreadful,  sob- 
bing sound  of  unspeakable  horror— and  Philip  Barstone 
staggered  back,  speechless,  livid,  horror-struck. 

''  Look  at  him  !  "  Willie  Allward  cried,  pointing  to  the 
ghastly  wretch.  "Look  at  him,  all  of  you,  and  see 
whether  I  speak  the  truth  !  This  woman  is  his  wife— his 
wife  whom,  six  years  ago,  he  tried  to  murder— whom,  un- 
til this  moment,  he  thought  he  had  murdered-— whom  he 
believed  dead  and  in  her  grave  !  This  woman  is  Caroline 
Barstone,  his  lawful,  wedded  wife,  ready  and  willing  to 
prove  my  words.  And  I  accuse  him  of  the  crime  of  in- 
fanticide— of  the  murder  of  his  own  child  ! " 

There  was  a  second  cry^ — this  time  the  roar  of  a  wild 
beast.  With  glaring  eye-balls,  Philip  Barstone  sprang 
forward  upon  his  merciless  accuser.  But  quicker  than 
thought  Willie  drew  a  pistol  from  his  pocket,  its  sharp 
click  echoing  through  the  room. 

"  I  expect'ed  something  like  this,  and  came  prepared. 
Stand  off,  you  murderer,  or  I'll  shoot  you  like  a  dog  ! " 


AVENGED.  297 

ilut  the  man  he  addressed  was  mad — mad  with  rage. 
Before  the  warning  words  were  uttered  he  had  grasjjed 
Willie  by  the  throat  with  one  hand,  and  with  tlie  other 
struggled  for  the  pistol.  And  then  the  wild  shrieks  of  the 
women  rang  through  the  house,  and  the  men  closed  around 
the  grappling  foes.  And  then  there  was  a  stifled  exclama- 
tion from  Philip  Barstone  as  he  wrenched  the  pistol  from 
Willie's  grasp  ;  then  a  loud  report,  a  second  mad  cry,  and  a 
crash.  The  combatants  were  separated,  Willie  Allward 
standing,  black  in  the  face,  and  Philip  Barstone  going 
headlong  to  the  floor. 

"  Bear  witness  all,"  Willie  cried,  ''  that  the  pistol  went 
off  in  his  own  hand  !  Pliilip  Barstone  has  shot  himself  ! " 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

AVENGED. 

Yes,  he  had  shot  himself  !  They  bent  above  him  as  he 
lay,  one  hand  pressed  to  his  right  side,  the  pistol  laying 
close  by,  his  eyes  shut,  a  horrible  expression  of  pain,  rage 
and  terror  on  his  face.  lie  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at 
his  cousin. 

"It's  all  up,  George — Fm  done  for  !  That  fellow  has 
had  his  vengeance — curse  him  !  " 

The  spectators  had  crowded  around,  stunned.  The 
screams  of  the  women — Fanny  loudest  of  all — echoed  now 
through  the  house.  Only  two  among  them  never  moved 
nor  spoke — Magdalen  and  Caroline  Barstone.  Even  in 
that  supreme  moment  George  looked  at  his  wife,  and  saw 
her  standing  where  she  had  stood  from  the  flrst — pale,  cold, 
rigid.     He  turned  away  and  exclaimed  : 

"Help  me  take  him  to  his  room  ;  and  Mr.  Harding,  for 
heaven's  sake  try  to  clear  the  house  of  these  people,  all  but 
that  man  and  woman  !  Doctor,"  to  the  old  family  physi- 
cian, standing  gravely  by,  "come  with  us  and  do  what 
you  can." 

They  carried  the  wounded  man — lying  with  closed  eyes 
and  groaning  at  intervals — up  to  his  room.  With  diffi- 
culty his  clothing  was  removed  and  he  was  placed  in  bed. 
As  the  doctor  began   his    examination,    George  hastily 


298  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

quitted  the  bedroom  and  crossed  to  Aunt  Lydia's  apart- 
ment. The  report  of  the  pistol  and  the  women's  screams 
must  have  reached  her.  She  must  hear  the  truth,  though 
it  killed  her. 

She  was  sitting  in  her  armchair,  ghastly  and  straining 
every  nerve  to  listen.  As  briefly  as  possible,  her  nephew 
told  her  what  had  happened. 

"Whether  the  wound  is  fatal,  or  even  very  serious,  I  do 
not  yet  know.  As  soon  as  it  is  possible  you  shall  be  taken 
to  his  room.  In  the  meantime  I  will  send  Fanny  to  you. 
Poor  child  ! " 

He  turned  to  go.  Miss  Barstone,  ashen  white  to  the 
lips,  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"And  Philip  is  the  Maurice  Langley  of  your  wife's 
story  ?  " 

"So  it  would  seem,"  George  answered,  bitterly. 

"And  she  has  known  this,  and  plotted  for  this  all 
along?" 

"  It  appears  so.  The  man  who  has  caused  it  all  is  her 
brother." 

His  aunt  looked  at  him — at  his  face  set  like  stone — at 
his  colorless,  compressed  lips. 

*'  My  poor  George  !  May  God  forgive  her,  and  God  help 
you  !  You  did  not  deserve  this.  Go  !  Be  merciful,  if 
you  can.  Send  Fanny  to  me.  I  will  wait  here  as  patiently 
as  may  be." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her,  and  left  the  room.  Outside 
the  door  he  stood  for  a  moment,  covering  his  eyes  with 
his  hands,  so  sick  at  heart  that  he  could  not  stir.  Magda- 
len had  done  this  ;  the  wife  he  had  loved  and  trusted  had 
plotted  and  wrought  their  ruin  ! 

The  house  was  very  still  ;  after  the  late  tumult  a  dead 
calm  had  fallen.  While  he  stood  there,  Philip's  bedroom 
door  opened  and  the  doctor  looked  out.  He  saw  George 
and  came  to  him  at  once. 

"  Well  ?"  asked  George  in  a  suppressed  voice. 

"  I'm  afraid  of  the  worst,  George.  I'm  afraid  he's  got 
his  death-wound,  and  he's  afraid  of  it  too.  He  told  me  to 
telegraph  to  Masterson.  He  is  quite  calm  now,  and  Mr. 
Harding  is  with  him.  I'll  write  out  the  telegi-am  and  dis- 
patch it  at  once.     Those  people  are  below,  waiting  for 

you." 

George  nodded  and  passed  on.     And  Philip  had  got  his 


AVENGED.  299 

death-woand  !  The  words  raug  like  some  horrible  refrain 
in  his  ears.  He  liad  loved  his  cousin  in  a  way  few  brothers 
love,  and  now  he  had  got  his  death-wound.  And,  in- 
directly, his  wife  had  done  it.  There  was  that  in  George 
Barstone's  face  that  no  living  being  iiad  ever  seen  there 
before,  as  he  strode  into  the  drawing-room  and  confronted 
those  who  were  assembled  there. 

He  took  all  in  at  one  glance.  His  wife  stood  as  he  had 
seen  her  last.  She  had  never  stirred  ;  her  colorless  face 
and  wide  open  eyes  had  never  altered  their  fixed,  blank 
look.  The  woman  who  claimed  to  be  Philip's  wife  had 
sunk  upon  a  cliair,  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands,  crying 
silent,  miserable  tears.  Ah  I  poor  Caroline  I  silent,  miser- 
able tears  had  been  lier  portion  since  first  she  had  s«en 
and  loved  Philip  Barstone's  false,  handsome  face.  Willie 
Allward  stood,  also,  as  he  had  left  liim,  hat  in  hand,  gazing 
sullenly  at  the  door.  And  in  a  far  corner —forgotten,  ne- 
glected, huddled  together  in  a  strange,  distorted  attitude 
of  pain,  was  poor  little  Fanny.  George  crossed  to  her  di- 
rectly and  lifted  her  up  like  a  child. 

"  This  is  no  place  for  you,  Fanny.  Go  up  to  Aunt 
Lydia  at  once." 

He  led  her  to  the  door.  Fanny  obeyed  that  tone  of  au- 
thority like  a  frightened  child.  Only  once  she  looked  up 
and  spoke,  piteously: 

"Oh,  George!  will  he  die  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.     Go  to  Aunt  Lydia." 

She  toiled  slowly  up  the  stairs.  He  watched  her  out  oi 
sight — then  came  back,  closed  the  door  and  looked  at  tlie 
three  who  had  wrought  this  ruin.  And  still  Magdalen 
stood  like  one  petrified,  like  one  blind  and  dumb. 

He  spoke  to  the  woman  first — Caroline.  She  had  looked 
up  and  met  his  stern,  pitiless  eyes. 

"  You  say  you  are  Caroline  Barstone — once  Caroline 
Reed.     Are  you  prepared  to  prove  it  ?  " 

She  arose  and  drew  a  paper  from  her  bosom. 

"It  is  my  marriage  lines,"  slie  said,  simply.  "I  have 
his  letters  to  me  in  my  pocket.  There  are  plenty  people 
who  can  prove  my  identity.'' 

"  How  is  it  he.  and  I,  we,  all  thought  you  dead  ?  I  have 
been  given  to  understaiul  Caroline  liarstone  died  in  Belle- 
vue  Hospital." 

**  He  thought  I  died  there,  sir,  but  it  was  a  mistaJce,  as 


300  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

yon  see.  I  can  tell  yoa  how  it  was,  if  you  will  listen  to 
the  story." 

"  I  am  here  to  listen.     Go  on." 

She  began.  And  told  him  all.  Her  desertion — the 
episode  of  Laura  Allward,  which  had  goaded  her  to  des- 
peration— Philip's  midnight  visit,  maddened  with  drink, 
and  its  tragical  termination — the  mistake  at  the  hospital 
— the  death  of  her  child. 

"  Then  your  child — his  child — was  really  killed,  and  by 
him?" 

Her  trembling  lips  answered  : 

*'Yes." 

*'  That  will  do.  I  am  convinced  you  are  his  wife,  and 
wronged  beyond  all  earthly  reparation.  Magdalen" — he 
turned  upon  her  abruptly  and  without  any  change  of  tone. 
*'  How  long  have  you  known  all  tliis  ?  " 

She  strove  to  speak  ;  the  words  died  away  upon  her 
lips.  Willie  came  a  step  forward  and  tried  to  answer  for 
her.  George  silenced  him  with  an  imperious  wave  of  his 
hand. 

*'  Not  a  word,  sir,  from  you  ;  let  your  sister  speak  for 
herself  ;  she  is  quite  capable  of  it.  Answer,  me,  if  you 
please.  You  have  known  this  ever  since  our  wedding  trip 
to  New  York  ?" 

"No." 

"  No  ?  Ah  !  I  see  !  You  thought  I  was  Maurice 
Langley,  in  New  York  ;  you  discovered  your  mistake  on 
the  night  of  Miss  Goldham's  party  ?  " 

She  bowed  her  head. 

"  And  ever  since  that  night  you  have  known  all  this — 
that  Philip  was  a  married  man  and  the  murderer  of  his 
own  child  ?  " 

"  I  have." 

"  And  knowing  this,  you  aided  Fanny  to  prepare  for 
her  marriage  ?  " 

There  was  no  reply. 

"  You  plotted  with  your  brother  and  this  woman  to  bring 
about  the  public  exposure  of  to-night.  You  worked  in 
the  dark  ;  you  let  things  go  on  to  the  very  last  minute  ;  you 
deliberately  deceived  us  all — all ;  you  had  neither  womanly 
compassion  for  Fanny,  nor  wifely  respect  for  me.  Mag- 
dalen Bars  tone,  I  have  been  deceived  in  you  as,  I  think, 
no  living   man  ever  was   deceived  in  a  wife  before.     I 


AVENGED.  301 

thonght  yon  little  lower  than  the  angels — a  perfect  woman, 
a  loviMg  wife.  I  lind  a  merciless,  pitiless  avenger,  with  a 
heart  of  stone — a  soul  without  one  spark  of  womanly  pity 
or  love.  Indirectly  you  have  caused  a  murder  to-niglit  ; 
you  liave  broken  a  young  girl's  heart — blighted  her  life. 
Magdalen,  God  may  forgive  you — I  never  can  !  "' 

He  turned  his  back  upon  her.  She  never  moved  from 
her  rigid  attitude — she  never  spoke.  Her  blank  eyes 
stared  straight  before  her,  in  an  awful,  sightless  stare. 
Again  Willie  tried  to  speak  ;  again  tlie  husband  prevented 
him. 

"  Not  a  word,  sir,  for  her  ;  I  am  her  husband  ;  it  is  for 
me  to  judge  her.  For  you,  your  jilot  has  ended  as  tragi- 
cally, as  melodramatically  as  you  and  your  accomijlices 
can  wish.  The  man  who  has  wronged  you  is  dying  up- 
stairs ;  the  family  are  as  deeply  disgraced  as  even  you  can 
desire.  If  you  had  come  to  me  when  you  first  discovered 
all  this  shameful  story,  yonder  woman  would  have  been 
provided  for,  and  the  man  who  was  once  her  husband 
would  have  been  banished  from  this  house  forever.  My 
wife  would  have  been  nearer  and  dearer  to  me  then  than 
before,  for  the  wrongs  she  had  endured  at  his  hands. 
But  such  a  vengeance  as  that  would  be  poor  and  tame  to 
you  ;  nothing  less  than  a  young  girl's  lifelong  misery,  a 
household  publicly  disgraced,  a  wretched  man's  life  taken, 
would  satisfy  you.  There  is  the  door  ;  leave  this  house, 
and  cross  its  threshold  no  more.  If  Philip  Barstone  lives, 
I  need  not  tell  you  to  do  your  worst.  You  will  do  it.  If 
he  dies,  he  will  have  passed  beyond  even  your  revenge. 
Go!" 

He  threw  open  the  door  with  the  last  word.  The  Rev, 
Mr.  Harding  stood  upon  the  threshold. 

"  He  has  asked  fur — for  his  wife,"  with  a  glance  at  Care 
line's  shrinking  figure.     "  Bring  her  up." 

He  hastened  away.  The  face  of  that  most  wretched 
wife  lighted  at  the  words  with  indescribable  rapture. 

'*  For  me  !  "  she  whispered  ;  '*  for  me  !"  She  stretched 
out  her  hands  to  George.  "Take  me  to  him,  sir,"  she 
said,  with  a  sob.     "  I  am  his  wife." 

His  face  softened  for  the  first  time  as  he  looked  at  her. 
This  was  womanhood — bearing  all  things,  forgiving  all 
and  loving  to  the  end  !     Without  word  or  look  for  the 


302  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

other    two,  he    took   her   hand    and    led  her    up  to  the 
wounded  man's  room. 

WilHe  went  over  and  took   Magdalen  by  the  arm. 
"  Wake  up,  Magdalen,"  he  said,  impatiently,  yet  with  a 
touch  of  pity  in  his  tone,  "  and  come  with  me.     He  doesn't 
want  you — can't  you  see  that  ?  " 

She' looked  at  him — passing  her  hand  across  her  brow. 
"  He  doesn't  want  me,"  she  repeated.      "  Yes,  take  me 
away,  Willie — take  me  away  !  " 

"  Go  and  put  a  shawl  on,  then.  Oh,  here  is  one,  and  a 
hat."  He  wrapped  the  shawl  about  her,  put  the  hat  on 
her  head.  He  had  espied  them  in  the  hall.  "  Come  with 
me  to  Millford  ;  you  can  stop  in  Caroline's  room,  and  to- 
morrow you  shall  go  home.  " 

''  Home  I  "  Magt-lalen  said,  in  a  voice  whose  pathos  went 
to  Willie's  heart.  *'  Home  !"  She  crossed  the  threshold 
as  she  spoke,  looking  back  as  Eve  might  have  looked  her 
last  on  Eden.  "  And  an  hour  ago  this  was  home.  Oh, 
my  God  !  what  have  I  done  ?  " 

The  piercing  agony  of  that  cry  frightened  him.  He 
drew  her  with  him  out  into  the  chill,  moonlit  night. 

"  Done  your  duty,  nothing  more  !  Don't  make  a  howl- 
ing about  it  ;  now  it  is  too  late." 

"  He  called  me  a  murderer.  He  said  I  broke  Fanny's 
heart,  and  oh,  Willie,  it  is  true — it  is  true  !  Philip  Bar- 
stone  is  dying,  and  through  me  I  " 

"  Nonsense  !  Stuff  I  Nothing  of  the  sort  !  Through 
himself,  and  serves  him  right.  I  only  hope  he  may  not 
die.  That  would  be  too  good  for  him  !  I  want  to  see  him 
in  Sing  Sing — consigned  to  the  living  death  to  which  he 
consigned  me.  Don't  be  maudlin,  Magdalen.  Come 
along.'" 

He  was  horribly  afraid  of  hysterics  ;  he  pulled  her  with 
him  roughly,  yet  looking  in  mingled  fear  and  compassion 
in  her  tortured  face. 

Slie  said  no  more  ;  she  walked  straight  with  him  to  Mill- 
ford,  her  rich  white  dress  trailing  the  roads — her  heart 
sick — her  head  dizzy.  It  was  a  walk  never  to  be  forgotten 
by  either.  They  reached  the  house  ;  Willie's  latch-key 
opened  the  door,  and  they  ascended  the  stairs  unobserved. 
He  threw  open  the  door  of  the  room  that  had  been  Caro- 
line's, drew  her  in  after  him  aud  struck  a  light.  The 
lamp  stood  on  the  table:  Magdalen   remained  where  he 


•'  I  AM  A  SINNER  VILER  THAN  YOU  ALL."  303 

he  had  left  her,  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.     Suddenly  she 

spoke  in  a  hnshed  whisper  : 

"  God  may  forgive  you  ;  I  never  will.  I  never  will.  " 
She  repeated  George's  words,  and,  without  aery  to  warn 

him,  fell  senseless  on  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

**I  AM  A  SINNER    VILER  THAN  YOU  ALL.  " 

George  led  Caroline  up  to  his  cousin's  room. The  lamp 
burned  dim — the  doctor  and  clergyman  still  stood  near. 
They  drew  hack  at  the  entrance  of  the  wife,  looking  at  her 
curiously.  She  was  a  heroine  of  a  romance,  a  real  heroine, 
and  romance  of  any  kind  was  the  rarest  of  rare  occurrences 
in  their  pi'osaic  lives.  The  wounded  man  lay  very  still, 
breathing  laboriously,  his  dark  eyes  wide  open  and  fixed 
upon  the  niglit  lamp.  Caroline  trembled  from  head  to 
foot  as  she  clung  to  George's  arm. 

"  Courage  I  "  he  whispered,  '*  he  is  not  angry  with  you." 

She  drojiped  on  her  knees  by  the  bedside  witii  a  stifled 
sob  and  kissed  the  hand  lying  helpless  there.  He  liad 
used  her  brutally — more  than  brutally — he  had  tried  to 
take  her  life — he  had  killed  her  child  ;  but  she  was  a 
woman  ;  she  had  been  his  wife — she  had  loved  him  dearly, 
passionately,  once.  And  he  was  dying  now.  To  the  dy- 
ing and  the  dead  all  things  are  forgiven.  In  that  hour 
her  lost  youth  came  back  to  her — the  lover  who  had 
been  so  fond  of  his  pretty,  black-eyed,  rosy-cheeked  bride, 
lay  helpless  here — not  tlie  brutal  husband.  And  Caro- 
line's dead  heart  waked  to  life  and  love,  and  the  infinite 
pain  love  brings  to  woman  in  that  sob  and  kiss. 

He  drew  the  hand  away  as  if  the  touch  of  her  lips 
burned  him  ;  he  looked  at  her  a  long,  steady,  frowning 
gaze. 

"  It  is  Caroline  !  "  he  said  ;  "  and  I  saw  her  grave  six 
years  ago  !  " 

"Not  mine  ;  oh,  Maurice!  not  mine!  I  would  not 
have  deceived  you  then,  and  after — I — I  was  afraid  to  tell 
you  !     Forgive  me,  Maurice — "     Iler  voice  died  away. 

Forgive  her  ?  He  ?  He  turned  from  her,  the  keenest 
pang  of  remorse  he  had  ever  felt  piercing  his  heart. 


304  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

"  Don't  kneel  there  !  "  he  said,  roughly  ;  "  don't  kneel 
to  me  !     Sit  down  ;    I  want  to  hear  the  wliole  story." 

She  sat  down  beside  him,  and  in  broken  accenta  told 
her  pitifnl  tale.  He  listened,  frowning  harshly,  with 
mental  and  physical  pain. 

"You  know  I  thought  you  dead  ?  When  you  heard  I 
was  about  to  marry  again,  why  did  you  not  come  forward 
at  once  ?     Why  did  you  wait  till  to-night  ?  " 

*'It  was  not  as  I  wished.  I  had  promised  to  obey  Willie 
Allward,  and  I  kept  my  word.  He  was  very  good  to  me, 
Maurice,  when  I  needed  a  friend,  and  I  never  dreamed  of 
this  !  " 

"  Don't  call  me  by  that  name  I  "  Philip  Barstone  said, 
almost  savagely.     "  Where  is  young  Allward  now  ?  " 

"  Down-stairs  with  his  sister." 

There  was  a  pause.  He  lay,  still  with  that  heavy  frown 
on  his  face,  still  breathing  painfully, 

"  See  here,  Caroline,"  he  said,  after  that  pause,  "  I 
know  I've  got  my  death-wound — there,  hold  your  tongue 
— you  ought  to  be  thankful,  and  are,  no  doubt,  but  if  you 
can  do  it,  1  want  you  to  stay  here  to  the  last.  I'm  glad 
you're  alive — I  am,  I  sw-ear — though  it  has  cost  me  my 
-life.  I've  been  the  greatest  scoundrel  on  earth  to  you,  and 
I  don't  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  mind — that's  impossible  ; 
fout  I  wish  you  would  stay.  It's  a  sort  of  comfort  to 
me  to  see  your  face.  For  the  sake  of  the  old  times,  long 
ago,  before  I  brought  you  to  New  York,  and  when  we  were 
fond  of  one  another,  you  will  stay  till  all  is  over." 

Her  stifled  sobs  interrupted  him.  He  looked  at  her 
with  real  anxiety  in  his  face.  She  caught  his  hand  and 
covered  it  with  tears  and  kisses. 

"Stay  with  you?  Oh,  my  darling  forever  and  ever 
And  I  do  forgive  you  !  You  were  mad  that  night,  and  I 
goaded  you  to  it,  and  you  did  not  know  what  you  were 
doing  !  Oh,  my  husband,  1  do  forgive  you  !  I  love  you 
and  forgive  you  with  all  my  heart !  " 

The  doctor  interfered,  sternly,  authoritatively. 

"  This  won't  do,"  he  said.  "You  must  control  your- 
self, madam,  or  you  must  leave  the  room  !  " 

The  wounded  man  looked  uj)  at  him  with  something 
that  was  almost  a  smile.  He  took  Caroline's  hand  for  the 
first  time. 

"  She  is  my  wife,  doctor,  "  he  said  ;  "  a  man's  wife  is 


"I  AM  A  SINNER  VILER  THAN  YOU  ALL.  305 

privileged  to  cry  a  little  wlien  her  Iiusband  is  going  out  of 
the  world.  She  shall  cry  as  nuicli  as  she  pleases,  and  I 
won't  have  her  sent  out  of  the  room.  It  doesn't  disturb 
me  in  the  least — I  liku  it  I  " 

"  You  talk  a  great  deal  more  than  is  good  for  you  I  " 
growled  the  pliysician.  '*  If  your  wife  has  any  influence 
over  you  I  wish  she  would  exercise  it  to  make  you  hold 
your  tongue  ! " 

She  came  close  to  him  ;  she  laid  her  hand  softly  on  his 
forehead.  Infinite  love,  infinite  forgiveness,  made  her  worn 
face  almost  angelic  in  its  light  at  that  moment.  Philip 
looked  at  her  in  a  sort  of  wonder — at  her  brightest,  in  the 
days  of  her  happy  childhood,  she  had  never  seemed  so 
beautiful  as  now. 

"  Don't  talk,  Maurice,"  she  said,  softly  ;  "  oh,  I  beg 
your  pardon,  I  mean  Philip.  Rest  if  you  can.  I  will 
never  leave  you  again — never." 

He  pressed  her  hands  faintly,  closed  his  eyes  and  lay 
still  ;  then  softly  called  "  George  ! "' 

George,  standing  gloomily  apart,  with  folded  arms  and 
compressed  lips,  advanced  and  stood  beside  him. 

*'  Where's  your  wife  ?" 

"Down-stairs  in  the  drawing-room." 

"  Don't  be  too  hard  on  her,  George.  It's  all  true  and 
she's  served  me  right.  I  don't  set  up  for  a  saint,  now  that 
I'm  done  for,  forgiving  everybody  and  all  that  bosh  ;  but 
she's  just  done  by  me  as  she  ought — as  I  would  do  in  her 
place.  She's  got  the  better  of  me,  and  she's  not  to  be 
blamed.  If  I  could  have  taken  her  life  yesterday  without 
fear  of  detection  I'd  have  done  it — I  would,  by  Jupiter  ! 
I  tell  you  it's  all  fair,  George,  and  you  must  not  be  hard 
on  her  when  I'm  gone.  I  hated  her  from  the  first,  because 
I  feared  her.  I've  done  with  fearing  now,  and  hating,  too. 
It's  all  over.  Fetch  her  here,  if  you  like,  and  I'll  tell  her 
so." 

"Thank  you,  Phil,"  George  said,  coldly.  "  I'd  rather 
not  fetch  her  here  just  at  present.  I  suppose  she  has 
served  you  right,  as  you  say  so,  and  I  suppose,  some  time 
in  the  future,  I  may  learn  to  forgive  her,  in  a  sort  of  way, 
but  that  time  is  not  yet.  I  will  go  to  her,  however,  and 
for  you — don't  excite  yourself  ;  try  to  sleep," 

"  Try  to  sleep,"  Caroline,  sighed  like  a  soft  echo  ;  "try 
to  sleep." 


306  MAGDxlLEN'S  VOW. 

George  left  the  room.  Before  descending  the  stairs  he 
tapped  at  3iiss  Barstone's  door  and  went  in.  Aunt  Lydia 
sat  as  he  had  left  her,  with  Fanny,  in  her  bridal  dress  and 
veil  and  orange  blossoms,  sobbing  at  her  feet — sobbing  and 
scolding  alternately.     She  looked  up  eagerly, 

"  Any  news,  George  ?  "  his  aunt  asked.  "  How  is  Pliil  : 
May  I  go  to  him  ?  " 

'*  Phil  is  no  worse,  and  I  think  it  would  be  as  well  not  re 
go  to  him  to-night.  He  hasn't  asked  for  you,  and  his  wife 
is  with  him.  They  are  reconciled,  and  she  is  to  stay  wicb 
him  to  the — last  !  " 

Fanny  burst  out  into  loud,  hysterical  weeping.  Hii 
wife  I  and  reconciled  to  him  ;  and  to  stay  with  him  to  the 
Jast !  It  was  the  unkindest  cut  of  all  !  She  was  excluded  ; 
nobody  thought  of  her  or  wanted  her.  She  was  a  miser- 
able, broken-hearted  girl,  w4iom  no  one  cared  for  or  pitied. 

"  I  wish  I  was  dead  ! "  Fanny  sobbed,  wildly.  "  I  wish 
I  was  dead  and  buried  !  Oh  I  why  was  I  ever  born  ?  Oh  ! 
what  have  I  ever  done  that  I  should  be  treated  like  this  ? 
Oh  !  dear  me  I " 

The  hysterics  grew  wilder.  She  jumped  up,  the  sobs 
almost  a  screech.  She  tore  the  wreath  from  her  head  and 
trampled  it  under  her  feet  and  fell  into  George's  arms  in 
the  most  frantic  hysterics. 

The  servants  were  summoned,  the  doctor  was  called  and 
George  made  his  escape.  This  time  he  descended  to  the 
drawing-room.  He  hardly  knew  what  he  meant  to  say  to 
Magdalen — not  forgive  her,  certainly  ;  but  not  reproach 
her,  either.  He  would  take  her  to  her  rooms,  he  thought, 
and  desire  her  to  remain  there  for  the  present.  He  sighed 
bitterly  as  he  thought  of  her  and  went  in. 

Tlie' drawing-room  was  empty  ;  his  wife  was  gone  ! 

He  looked  around  bewildered ;  he  searched  the  smal.' 
inner  room,  tiie  dining-room — in  vain.  He  went  up  to 
her  own  rooms  ;  they,  too,  were  deserted.  As  he  stood, 
not  knowing  where  to  look  next,  Susie,  the  housemaid, 
passing  from  Aunt  Lydia's  room,  addressed  him  respect- 
fully. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir  ;  are  you  looking  for  Mrs.  Bar- 
stone  ?  " 

"Yes.     Where  is  she?" 

'- 1  don't  know,  sir  ;  she  has  left  the  house." 

'* Left  the  house!" 


^'I  AM  A  SINNER  VILER  THAX  YOU  ALL."    307 

"  Yes.  sir  ;  with  that  stranp:e  young  man.  I  saw  her  go 
away  witli  liiin  five  minutes  after  yon  came  np-stairs  with 
tlie  lady.  I  ht-artl  him  tell  her  tu  come,  and  siie  put  on  a 
shawl  and  hat  and  went." 

"Thank  you,  Susan  ;  that  will  do." 

He  spoke  quietly.  He  returned  to  the  bedroom  and  sat 
down.  She  had  deserted  him,  then,  and  gone  away  with 
her  brother — the  brother  whom  she  loved  far  more  tiian 
she  had  ever  loved  the  husband.  After  all,  perhaps  it 
was  as  well.  Her  position  in  the  house,  just  now,  would 
be  little  short  of  daily  torture.  He  felt  himself  that  he 
could  hardly  bear  to  see  her  at  present.  She  would  prob- 
ably stay  at  her  brother's  lodgings  to-night,  and  to-mor- 
row go  back  to  her  country  home.  Better  so — yes,  better 
so.  In  a  few  weeks,  when  all  had  ended  one  way  or  other, 
he  would  follow  and  reclaim  her  and  forgive  her,  if  he 
could. 

Morning  Ciime.  Another  jubilant  April  day.  The  sun 
shining,  the  .irds  singing.  There  was  little  change  in  the 
sick  man — some  rising  fever,  no  more.  George  took  a  cup 
of  coflfee  and  went  to  Millford  and  Mrs.  Freeman's  board- 
ing-house. There  was  a  note  for  him  there — from  Willie. 
It  ran  : 

Mr.  George  Barstone  : — 

Sir — I  have  taken  Magdalen  home — your  house  is  no 
place  for  her  now.  I  will  be  back  in  Millford  to-morrow 
night  in  case  I  should  be  needed.     Yours,  to  command, 

William  Allward. 

The  day  passed — the  fever  had  increased — Philip  wa? 
growing  delirious.  With  the  evening  came  Doctor  ^las- 
terson — before  midnight  the  ball  was  extracted.  But  the 
fever  was  steadily  increasing — the  vital  power  to  rally 
seemed  lacking.  Before  morning  he  was  raving  incoher- 
ently— with  the  day  he  seemed  to  sink — to  sink  in  spite  of 
every  effort — by  night  he  was  at  the  lowest. 

Though  all  tlie  faithful  wife  sat  at  her  post,  heedless  of 
sleeping,  of  eating,  of  all  earthly  things  but  the  man  whose 
hand  she  clasped,  whose  damp  brow  she  bathed,  whose 
wild  words  she  listened  to. 

She   had   the    reward    most   men   give   most    women. 


308  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

Throngli   it   all    he    never    spoke    of    her — his    thoughts 
seemed  perversely  centered  upon  another. 

"Don't  go  out  to-night,  Laura,"  he  would  cry.  over 
and  over  again  ;  "  it's  past  midnight — don't  go  to-night." 

He  spoke  of  many  things,  but  this  was  the  burden  of 
his  cry.  "  Don't  go  to-night,  Laura — don't  go  to-night." 
The  seared  wounds  of  his  wife's  heart  bled  afresh  as  she 
listened — it  was  her  rival — of  Laura  Allward,  dead  and 
gone,  his  every  thought  was  now  ;  he  had  forgotten  her. 
It  was  but  one  more  stab  to  that  patient  heart,  but  it 
seemed  the  bitterest  of  all. 

The  fever  left  him  as  night  fell.  He  opened  his  eyes, 
and  they  rested  on  Caroline.  He  smiled  faintly — he 
tried  to  speak — the  power  to  speak  was  gone.  He  mo- 
tioned for  a  drink,  smiled  in  her  face  again,  closed  his 
eyes  and  lay  still. 

'  The  fluttering  breath  was  there,  and  no  more.  Fainter 
and  fainter  it  came — lower  and  lower  sank  the  pulse — he 
hardly  seemed  to  breathe.  Doctor  Masterson  sat  on  the 
other'side  of  the  bed,  holding  his  wrist,  gazhig  steadfastly 
at  the  corpse-like  face.  They  were  all  in  the  room — the 
windows  were  wide  open — the  night  air  was  fluttering  the 
curtains — the  broad,  white  moonlight  shone  in.  Fanny 
knelt  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  her  face  hidden,  weeping 
incessantly.  Miss  BarstoJie  sat  at  the  head  ;  George  stood 
behind  her  chair  ;  the  Rev.  Mr.  Harding  and  Eichard 
Tompkins  stood  together  at  a  little  distance. 

The  hours  wore  on.  Did  he  sleep  ?  Xo  sign  of  life 
was  there,  but  life  still  lingered.  It  was  close  upon 
twelve,  by  the  doctor's  watch,  when  he  suddenly  opened 
his  eyes  wide  and  looked  full  at  the  moonlit  window. 

"Don't  go  to-night,  Laura."  he  repeated;  "it  is  past 
midnight — don't  go  to-night." 

His  voice  failed — they  saw  him  shudder  from  head  to 
foot.  Then  he  lay  still.  Asleep  again  ?  Doctor  Master- 
eon  bent  over  him,  his  ear  to  his  mouth.     He  was  dead  I 


FORGIVEN.  309 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

FORGIVEN. 

Nurse  Rachel  sat  on  the  front  doorstep  of  the  solitary 
cottage  nestled  among  the  New  Hampshire  hills.  The 
May  afternoon  was  warm  and  still — verv  still  in  that  green, 
secinded  spot,  remote  from  every  other  habitation. 

Over  the  distant  mountain  peaks  a  golden  gray  sky 
spread — a  faint,  southerly  breeze  stirred  the  rose  bushes 
under  the  open  windows  and  fluttered  softly  the  muslin 
curtains.  In  the  little  grass-grown  garden  Laura  raced, 
with  the  house-dog  at  her  heels,  her  light  hair  flowing 
loose,  her  childish  laugh  pealing  out  sweet  and  merry. 

Rachel's  sewing  lay  in  her  lap  ;  it  had  fallen  there,  un- 
heeded, as  she  sat  and  thought.  A  neighbor  from  the 
village,  passing  along  and  pausing  at  the  gate,  aroused 
her. 

"  How  is  Mrs.  Barstone  to-day  ?''  the  woman  asked. 

*'  Much  the  same — no  better.     Won't  you  come  in  ?  '* 

**  No.     Is  she  out  of  her  mind  still  ?  " 

**  Out  of  her  mind  and  talking  about  everything  under 
the  sun.  Laura,  child,  less  noise — remember  auntie  is 
sick." 

The  neighbor  passed  on — the  child  subdued  her  gleeful 
laugh.  Five  minutes  later  and  Rachel,  about  to  rise  and 
return  to  the  house,  saw  a  man — a  stranger — hastily  ap- 
proaching the  house.  One  glance  was  enough  ;  it  was 
Magdalen's  husband. 

She  sat  still  and  waited.  Tie  came  on,  opened  the  little 
white  gate  and  drew  near.  He  was  very  pale  and  care- 
worn and  dressed  in  mourning. 

•'My  wife  is  here  ?  "  he  said.  "I  am  George  Bars- 
tone."' 

Rachel  slowly  arose. 

"  Your  wife  has  been  here  two  weeks.  It  is  rather  late 
in  the  day  to  come  for  her  now." 

He  grew  ashen  white — she  saw  his  lips  tremble. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?    Magdalen  is  here — is  well  ?  " 


310  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

**  Yes,  well,'*  Nurse  Rachel  retorted,  bitterly  ;  "  so  well 
that  she  will  soon  be  in  heaven  I  Your  wife  lies  in  yon- 
der room — dying  !  " 

He  utcered  a  cry  ;  he  staggered  as  if  she  had  struck 
him  a  blow. 

"  Dying  I  "  he  repeated,  in  a  whisper  ;  "  dying  !  Mag- 
dalen dying  ! " 

The  words  died  upon  his  lips.  Tlie  white  horror  in 
his  face  moved  even  Rachel,  bitterly  though  she  st'll 
spoke. 

"  Aye,  dying,  for  what  I  know — for  what  the  doctor 
knows^  to  the  contrary.  You  have  done  well  between  you, 
sir — you  and  your  cousin  !  He  broke  her  sister's  heart, 
as  you  have  broken  Magdalen's  I" 

"He  is  dead  !  "  George  Barstone  said,  in  a  hollow  voice  ; 
"let  him  be!" 

"  Dead  !     Maurice  Langley  dead  at  last  I ' 

"  At  last.  If  he  wronged — and  he  did  wrong  greatly — 
Laura  Allward,  at  least  he  has  paid  the  penalty  with  his 
life.  Let  me  see  my  wife — living  or  dying,  she  is  still 
mine. " 

Rachel  moved  into  the  house  at  once,  awed  by  the  ex- 
I^ression  of  his  face.  She  opened  the  door  of  the  little 
parlor  where,  years  before,  Magdalen,  a  school  girl  of  six- 
teen, had  knelt  beside  her  dead  sister — a  friendless 
orphan. 

The  little  room  was  darkened  now  as  then — now,  as 
then,  was  spotlessly  pure  and  clean — and  on  the  bed,  white 
as  that  dead  sister,  Magdalen  lay  heavily  asleep.  Her 
husband  crossed  the  room  and  stood,  hat  in  hand,  gazing 
down  at  that  death-like  face.  Rachel  looked  at  him 
once,  and  with  that  look  forgave  him  all.  He  had  loved 
her — he  loved  her  still — the  unutterable  anguish  she 
read  there  told  her  that.  She  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  arm  with  a  woman's  first  pitying  instinct — to  com- 
fort. 

"  She  has  not  slept  like  this  since  she  was  taken,"  she 
whispered.  "  It's  a  good  omen.  I  have  hope  to-day  for 
the  first  time." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  whispered  back. 
"Typhus — malignant  typlius.     No  one  sets  foot  inside 
this  door  but  myself.     She  was  taken  down  the  very  day 
she  came." 


FORGIVEN.  311 

"And  her  brotlicr  returned  to  Millford  and  never  told 
me.  I  asked  him  if  he  liad  left  her  stife  unci  well,  and  he 
answered  '  yes.'" 

He  sank  in  a  chair  by  the  bedside  and  covered  his  eyes 
with  his  hands. 

"  Has  the  doctor  been  here  to-day  ?"  he  asked,  after  a 
pause. 

"  He  was  here  this  morning." 

"  And  what  docs  he  say  ?  " 

"  That  this  sleep  will,  in  all  probability,  be  her  salva- 
tion, if  the  trouble  that  has  weighed  on  lier  mind  from  the 
first  can  be  removed.  Y<ni  have  only  to  say,  '  1  forgive 
you,'  and  that  will  be  done." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her. 

"  Thank  you,  Rachel,"  he  said.  "  What  would  have 
become  of  her  but  for  you  ?     Where  is  her  brother  :  " 

"Gone  West,  to  push  his  fortune.  He  meant  to  send 
for  Magdalen  as  soon  as  he  could.  And  you  tell  me,  sir, 
Maurice  Langley  is  dead  and  buried  ?" 

"  Dead  and  buried." 

"  And  did  he  die  repentant  ?  Did  any  remorse  for 
the  wrongs  he  had  done  haunt  him  on  that  death-bed  ?" 

"  Laura's  name  was  the  last  niton  his  lips.  He  forgave 
those  who  had  been  his  enemies — my  wife  and  her  brother. 
His  wife  forgave  him.  and  was  by  his  side  until  the  last. 
She  is  at  Golden  Willows  still.  JShe  will  never  leave  it 
now." 

"  And  the  poor  young  lady,  sir  ?" 

**  Fanny  has  left  Millford  and  gone  to  New  York.  A 
frietul  of  ours — Mr.  Richard  Tompkins — induced  his 
mother  to  come  and  fetch  her  for  a  long  visit.  She  will 
do  well  enough.  Had  I  deemed,  ever  so  remotely,  Mag- 
dalen was  ill,  I  would  have  left  everything  and  come  to 
her  at  once." 

"  1  believe  you,  sir,"  old  Rachel  answered.  "  I  don't 
deny  that  it  was  hard — your  cousin's  crimes  visited 
upon  you.  Your  married  life  has  not  been,  hitherto, 
a  very  liappy  one.  Magdalen's  secret  and  Magdalen's 
vow  have  stood  between  you  and  happiness.  All  that 
is  over  now.  When  you  are  reunited,  and  your  new 
life  begins,  there  will  be  nothing  to  come  between  you. 
The  past  will  be  atoned  for  and  forgotten  when  she 
recovers." 


312  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

She  left  the  room  to  prepare  for  her  unexpected  visitor. 
George  looked  despairingly  at  the  corpse-like  face. 

"When  she  recovers  !''  he  repeated.  *'  My  wife  !  my 
wife  !  my  wife  ! " 


It  was  the  day  after,  early  in  the  forenoon.  With  the 
May  sunshine  streaming  in,  the  birds  singing  outside  the 
window,  Magdalen  opened  her  eyes,  the  fever  gone — death- 
like, exhausted,  but  safe. 

George  sat  by  her  bedside.  Her  eyes  fell  upon  him.  A 
faint,  sweet  smile  parted  her  lips ;  then,  a  second  after, 
she  was  asleep  again. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  she  awoke  again,  hungry  for  the 
first  time.  It  was  George's  hand  that  administered  the 
beef  tea  and  the  cooling  drink — George's  voice  that  spoke 
with  tremulous  tenderness  in  her  ear.  She  smiled  again  ; 
she  felt  no  surprise  at  seeing  him  there;  she  was  still  too 
utterly  weak  even  to  think. 

Another  jubilant  morning,  and  again  she  awoke  from  a 
long,  sweet,  health-giving  sleep,  stronger  in  body  and 
mind — strong  enough,  at  least  to  think. 

It  was  Rachel  who  watched  by  her  now — Rachel  who 
bathed  her  face  and  hands  and  prepared  her  slender  morn- 
ing meal. 

She  looked  wonderingly  at  her  own  wasted  hands,  and 
spoke  for  the  first  time. 

"  I  have  been  sick,  Rachel  ?     How  long  ?" 

''  Nearly  three  weeks,  my  dear.  You  mustn't  talk  yet ; 
you're  not  strong  enough. 

"  What  was  the  matter  ?  " 

"  A  fever.     You're  doing  nicely  now." 

"  Where  is  George  ?" 

'^  Gone  for  a  walk.  Drink  your  tea  like  a  good  child, 
and  don't  talk  any  more  just  now." 

Magdalen  obeyed.  She  ate  and  drank  with  the  avidity 
of  convalescence,  and  lay  back  on  her  pillow,  with  closed 
eyes,  thinking.  And  slowly  it  all  came  back — that  dread- 
ful night — her  flight  from  Golden  Willows — George's 
cruel  words — her  falling  ill  here. 

"  God  may  forgive  you,  but  I  never  will  !"  George  had 
said  that,  and  yet  George  was  here,  and  watching  by  her 
sick-bed.     What  did  it  mean  ?  " 


FORGIVEN.  313 

The  door  opened  softly,  as  slie  thought,  and  George 
came  in.  Weak  as  she  was,  she  started  np  on  lier  elbow, 
the  dark,  large  eyes  looking  unnaturally  dark  and  large 
and  dilated  now.  She  grasped  his  wrist  as  he  drew  near 
and  looked  v/ildly  up  in  his  face. 

'*  You  said  you  would  never  forgive  me  ?  *'  she  exclaimed, 
"  and  yet  you  are  here.  Oh,  George  I  why  did  you  not 
let  me  die  i  '' 

lie  drew  her  to  him  and  sealed  the  pale  lips  with  a  fer- 
vent kiss. 

"That  is  why,  my  darling !  Because  I  love  you  ;  be- 
cause I  cannot  live  without  you.  Forget  those  harsh 
words  of  mine,  my  love.  I  was  beside  myself  when  I 
spoke  them — and  don't  agitato  yourself  now  I  " 

She  still  sat  and  gazed  at  him,  lier  eyes  wild,  her  face 
incredulous. 

"  And  after  all — after  that  night — after  what  I  have 
done — you  can  still  love  me,  still  forgive  me  ?  Say  it 
again,  George  !  I  can't  believe  it — 1  can't  realize'  it ! 
Say  it  again  ! " 

''Again  and  again,  and  ten  thousand  limes  again,  my 
own  dear  wife — my  poor,  tortured,  half-maddened  girl  1 
I  forgive  you  ;  T  love  you — I  never  knew  how  dearly  until 
now  !  I  know  all,  Magdalen — how  you  strove  to  save  us 
at  the  last.  I  know  the  exposure  was  Willie's  doing,  not 
yours.  And  Philip  deserved  it.  He  owned  it  himself 
•ind  died  knowing  his  sentence  to  be  just." 

"■  And  he  is  dead  ?" 

•'  Dead,  and  forgiven,  let  us  hope.  Died  with  his  wife 
beside  him,  thankful  to  have  her  there.  And  I  have  come 
liere,  never  to  leave  you  again,  my  darling — never  to  let 
anything  come  between  us  more.". 

She  covered  her  eyes  with  one  wasted  hand,  her  heart 
too  full  for  words.  She  had  not  deserved  such  mercy  as 
this. 

*'  An<l  Fanny  ?  "  she  whispered  after  a  pause. 

**Fannyisin  New  York  with  the  Tompkins  family. 
She  won't  break  her  heart,  believe  me  !  "  George  answered, 
rather  cynicallv. 

*' And  Aunt'Lvdia  ?" 

**  Bears  it  as  she  lias  borne  all  the  sorrows  of  her  life, 
nobly.  Caroline  is  with  her — will  lu'ver  leave  her  now, 
and  when  you  are  suflicientlj  restored  to  leave  this,  Rachel 


314  MAGDALEN'S  VOW. 

and  little  Lanra  will  find  their  future  home  at  Golden 
Willows.  With  Laura  in  the  house,  she  will  be  almost 
happy.  And  we  will  leave  her  with  them,  my  own  Mag- 
dalen, and  start  for  that  trip  to  the  old  land  we  have 
looked  forward  to  so  long.  Think  of  Venice  and  Naples 
and  Eome,  and  the  rest  of  it,  Mrs.  Barstone,  and  make 
haste  and  get  well  !  This  shall  be  our  wedding-tour — a 
happier  one  than  our  last." 


Three  weeks  later,  and  with  Rachel  and  Laura  safely 
transplanted  to  Golden  Willows,  George  and  Magdalen 
found  themselves  in  New  York,  their  passage  taken  in  the 
steamer  that  was  to  bear  them  away  on  the  first  stage  of 
their  long  pleasant  tour. 

They  had  called  upon  Miss  Winters  at  the  residence  of 
the  paternal  Tompkins,  and  found  that  young  lady  look- 
ing very  nice  and  fresh  and  rosy  in  her  new  mourning. 
It  was  a  little  awkward,  the  first  meeting  between  Mag- 
dalen and  Fanny  ;  but  it  wore  away  presently,  and  Fanny 
was  expatiating  in  the  old,  breathless  way  upon  the  de- 
lights of  the  Empire  City. 

"  I  never  could  live  in  the  country  again,  after  being 
here,  Magdalen  ;  not  that  I  go  into  society  as  yet,  of 
course,"  glancing  at  her  crape  and  jet.  "  But  still  iVh 
splendid,  and  Mrs.  Tompkins  is  so  kind,  and  so  are  the 
Misses  Tompkins — just  like  sisters — I'm  sure  ;  and 
Richard  is  such  a  genius.  And,  oh  !  Magdalen,  authors 
and  artists  and  poets  are  as  plentiful  in  this  house  as 
blackberries  on  the  bushes  at  home." 

"Richard,"  Mrs.  Barstone  repeated,  demurely,, 
■'  Richard  is " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Tompkins,  of  course,"  Fanny  answered, 
blushing.  "  I  get  into  the  way  of  it,  hearing  the  girls 
call  him  so.  It's  very  kind  of  George  and  you  to  wish  to 
take  me  with  you,  but,"  twisting  her  bracelet  nervously 
and  looking  down,  "  but  I  don't  care  for  traveling  just 
yet.  I  like  New  York,  and  I  liaven't  half  seen  it ;  and 
besides,  Mrs.  Tompkins  won't  hear  of  my  leaving." 

"  Well,"  George  asked  his  Avife,  when  they  left  the 
house,  "  what  do  you  think  of  Fanny  ?"' 

Magdalen  smiled. 

*'  Fanny  will  do  very  nicely.     I  am  more  thankful  than 


FORGIVEN.  315 

I  can  say  to  see  her  like  this.  I  haven't  deserved  to  be 
so  happy  uftor  ull  ray  wickednesti.  Forgiven  by  all — 
Fanny,  Aunt  Lyiliu  and  you — and  loved  and  trusted  so 
entirely  once  more  I  Oh,  George,  can  anything  ever  come 
between  us  two  again  ?  '' 

And  so,  with  the  dawn  of  her  new   life,  we  leave  Mag- 
dalen, the  great  trials  of  tlie  past  ended,  a  wiser,  a  ten 
derer,  a  better  woman.     She  has   acted   wrongly  and  suf- 
fered greatly,  and  no  secret  will  ever  i)art  her  from   her 
husband's  heart  more. 

And  Fanny  ?  Well,  it  is  eight  months  since  that 
tragical  April  night,  and  Fanny  is  plumper,  rosier  and 
more  talkative,  if  possible,  than  ever.  I  received  a  letter 
no  longer  ago  than  last  week  from  Mr.  Richard  Tonipkins 
for  whom  I  entertain  the  warmest  sentiments  of  fraternal 
friendship,  in  which  he  more  than  iiinted  tliat  one  of  the 
ambitions  of  his  life  was  on  the  eve  of  realization.  An 
heiress  worth  sixty  thousand  dollars  has  consented  to 
marry  him. 

In  justice  to  my  friend,  I  must  state  that  he  is  very 
fond  of  his  little  heiress — her  name  is  Fanny — and  that 
she  looks  up  to  and  venerates  the  famous  author. 

And  at  Golden  Willows  they  await  tiie  return  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Barstone,  in  anticipation  of  a  certain  happy 
event.  Little  Laura,  seems  to  have  brought  new  life  to 
Aunt  Lydia.  In  tlie  years  to  come  other  children  may 
make  the  dear  old  homestead  merry,  but  if  they  are 
nearer  and  dearer  to  the  hearts  of  George  and  Magdalen, 
Laura's  child  will  never  know  it. 


[the  end.] 


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